The Broken, the Beaten and the Damned
by scrumdiddilyumptious
Summary: Set during CA:TWS and post-Agent Carter S2. An AU tie-in. 'Son, when you grow up will you be the saviour of the broken, the beaten and the damned' How many lifetimes would it take to make up for all of your past mistakes? Steve/Peggy. Steve Bucky friendship. Peggy Bucky friendship. Rated T. Canon-typical violence.
1. The Smithsonian

Firstly, a huge thank you to everyone who took the time to read my first Steve/Peggy story 'It Happened One Night'. You don't know how much it means to me. Once again, I've had a blast writing this. These characters are so fun to explore!

The title comes from _Welcome to the Black Parade_ by My Chemical Romance – my Secondary school self is giddy.

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**Summary: **Set during CA:TWS and post-Agent Carter S2. An AU tie-in. 'Son, when you grow up will you be the saviour of the broken, the beaten and the damned?' How many lifetimes would it take to make up for all of your past mistakes? Steve/Peggy. Steve+Bucky friendship. Peggy+Bucky friendship.

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**The Broken, the Beaten, and the Damned  
****Chapter 1**

"_A symbol to the nation. A hero to the world. The story of Captain America is one of honour, bravery and sacrifice."_

He hadn't meant to walk to the Smithsonian Institute. He certainly hadn't meant to pay the entrance fee and take the escalator up to the _Captain America: The Living Legend and Symbol of Courage _exhibition. And yet, here was where Steve Rogers found himself. Adopting a poor disguise of a baseball cap and a meek demeanour, Steve allowed the crowds to lead him slowly through the gallery. The artistic construction of the exhibit with the voice-over, the mood lighting and vast collection of memorabilia created a general atmosphere of inspired awe. Steve, however, found it surreal to be shown his life as though it belonged to someone else. With just a hint of bitterness, he supposed this life did belong to someone else. The people surrounding him marvelled at the myth, not the man. The people who knew the man – _really _and_ truly _knew the man – were all gone.

Steve was led through the pre-war years, Project Rebirth, the USO tour, liberating the 107th in Azzano, Italy, and forming the Howling Commandos before he had to pause. He was starting to feel overwhelmed. He hung back, allowing the crowd to pass, and stared over their heads at the mannequins that displayed the motley crew of the Howling Commandos in their battle regalia. The mannequin Captain America stood front and centre, flanked by Bucky and Dugan. He smiled to himself despite the nostalgic drop in his stomach, glad that they, at least, were receiving the honour that they deserved.

An intense melancholy washed over him. The press of the crowd suddenly felt too oppressive. Steve pushed through, mumbling apologies as he forced his way through the tight pack of bodies. Suddenly, he found that he'd turned himself around with no idea as to where the exit was. He ducked into a small room. A documentary was mid-way through playing. A blonde mother and daughter were both too engrossed in the film to notice who had joined them. Steve dropped onto the far end of the bench where they sat. He tipped his head into his hands and rubbed at his temples, grateful for the air conditioning that cooled the back of his flushed neck.

"…thought someone was yankin' my chain the first time I met him."

Steve's head snapped up. Howard Stark's smiling face filled the screen, talking casually passed the camera to, he presumed, whoever was interviewing him. Howard looked older than when Steve had last seen him: new wrinkles lined his eyes and his hair had started to grey at the temples. Naturally, this only made Howard look more distinguished.

"Here I was with the Vita-Ray machine set up and Erskine's serum at the ready and in walks Peggy with this scrawny kid who could barely fill his uniform," Howard recalled with a smile. "I remember thinkin' '_This_ is the best the US army has to offer?' I was waitin' for someone to pull the punchline, y'know? 'Just kiddin', here's the real guy!' and out steps a marine but mostly everyone was serious about Rogers."

"From my understanding, the SSR had many potential candidates for Project Rebirth – some of whom would have been deemed more suitable for the job," the off-screen voice of the interviewer stated. "Why was Rogers chosen over all of them?"

"Dr. Erskine knew what he wanted. He wasn't lookin' for someone who ticked all the right boxes on the outside; he wanted someone who was good on the inside."

"And that was Rogers?"

"And that was Rogers," Howard confirmed. "Peggy told me afterward that durin' basic trainin', Phillips threw a grenade – a dummy, of course, but no one knew that at the time – into the middle of Steve's unit. Peg said that whilst all these big, burly soldiers scrambled out the way or hit the deck, Steve threw himself on top of the grenade and shouted at everyone else to get clear. _That_ was what made Steve Rogers Captain America – not the serum or the shield but the innate goodness that was inside him. He was Captain America long before we at the SSR got our mitts on him."

"Do you think Dr. Erskine would have been proud of Captain Rogers?"

"Without a doubt," Howard said unhesitatingly. "We lost Erskine and the last of his serum moments after Rogers' transformation. I think he would have been proud to know that if there was only ever one super soldier, it was Steve."

"You speak very highly of Captain Rogers."

"He was the best of us."

"So, you've mentioned Peggy a few times; I take it you're referring to Agent Margaret Carter?" the interviewer asked. "From my understanding, she was the one who cleared your name in 1946 after you were framed for selling weapons of mass destruction on the black market."

"Yeah, that wasn't a pleasant time," Howard said with a self-deprecating grin, "but it helped knowin' that Peggy had my back - even when it went against her better judgement. She could have lost everythin', and very nearly did. For a short time, she was labelled a traitor to the U.S. and that could have led to a death sentence. Despite that, she refused to back down. She was unwaveringly loyal to those she cared about – somethin' that she shared with Steve."

"And how involved was she with Project Rebirth?"

"Oh, she was involved with Project Rebirth near enough every step of the way," Howard said. "Certainly in every way that mattered. She played just as important a role as Phillips and me. In fact, if she hadn't busted Erskine out of Schmidt's imprisonment then there would have been no Project Rebirth and no Captain America. After the war she continued workin' as an operative for the SSR and became one of their leadin' agents. She really paved the way for other female operatives."

"She sounds pretty fascinating."

A shadow passed across Howard's face and his lips pursed. "She… she was, yeah."

"I understand she was the last person to speak to Captain Rogers before his plane went down."

Gone was the easy-going charm that Steve had first encountered in the interview. Howard's jaw was tightly locked, his mouth a rigid line as he struggled to contain his emotions. How many times had Steve seen the same method employed by Tony? Howard gave a jerk of his head in the affirmative.

"Can you tell us what she said?" the interviewer pressed.

Howard tried and failed to smile. "I'd assume she was tryin' to tell him how to safely land a plane."

Howard's careful deflection told Steve that he knew all about their last conversation. Had Peggy confided in him? Or had it been recorded, committing every word spoken between them to tape? If the latter, then Steve sincerely hoped that recording hadn't survived the last seventy years, as he had. The last thing he wanted was to reach the end of the exhibition to hear his and Peggy's final goodbye playing in unapologetic surround sound.

"Rogers was Army, so the government didn't think it necessary to teach him how to pilot an aircraft." A pause. "To their, and our, everlastin' regret."

An unfathomable emotion shone behind Howard's determinedly dry eyes as he slowly faded to black and quiet, orchestral music faded in. The title-card appeared on-screen: white text on a black background.

_The Scientific Strategic Reserve continued its work until the Spring of 1947 when Howard Stark, Colonel Chester Phillips, and Agent Margaret Carter started to form the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. Now, more commonly referred to as S.H.I.E.L.D._

The writing faded to reveal a candid photograph of Dr. Erskine. He wore his tweed three-piece suit, glasses, and fedora hat. He was in the process of either removing his glasses to polish them or returning them post-polish. White text appeared beside his image.

_Dr. Albert Erskine was killed by Heinz Kruger, an agent of rogue-Nazi division HYDRA, moments after the successful transformation of Steve Rogers in 1943. _

_His work with the Super Soldier Serum has never been successfully replicated._

Slowly, the image and text faded to be replaced with Peggy in her dress uniform, positioned to the left and looking away from the camera with the barest hint of a smile.

_Agent Margaret Carter, better known as Peggy, was Killed in Action whilst evacuating civilians during the Stark Industries bombing of 1947. She was posthumously named a founder of S.H.I.E.L.D. alongside Stark and Phillips. _

_Her body was returned to Hampstead Heath, London, where she was buried beside her brother, Michael. _

From his pants pocket, Steve retrieved the gold compass of his father's and popped it open. The slightly weathered image of Peggy, hastily cut from a newspaper article over seventy years ago, still resided in the inside cover. Fury had said it was the one thing he'd been clutching when they thawed out his body. Similarly to the documentary, she wore another one of her teasing almost-smiles.

He'd known; of course, he'd known. Once the dust from the Battle of New York had settled and he'd been firmly established in Washington D.C., Steve had requested every file that S.H.I.E.L.D. had on his former friends. He'd spent a sombre afternoon in his apartment learning the fates of them all. The original Howling Commandos, he had been both pleased and relieved to read, had all survived the war and lived long (and hopefully happy) lives. He hadn't been surprised by the news of Howard – he'd already met Tony, after all; he knew the story there. But Peggy… his Peggy… _his best girl_. She'd live for two years, two _measly_ years, after surviving one of the worst wars in living history. He'd known Nazi's and Nazi-collaborators who had lived longer lives.

Again, the image and text faded to be replaced with a photograph of a younger Howard. He was positioned similarly to Peggy, wearing a shirt, tie and jumper with a light jacket over the top but stared into the camera with an uncharacteristically sombre expression.

_Howard Stark and his wife, Maria, died in a car crash in 1991. Stark Industries continues to run as a multinational company of industry. _

_Their son, Anthony Stark, is the popular superhero, Iron Man._

Another transition to an image of Colonel Phillips. He was also in his dress uniform, hat perched upon his head, positioned to the left like Peggy and Howard and looking grimly into the camera.

_Colonel Chester Phillips eventually retired from service and died of cancer-related pneumonia in 1970, aged ninety-three. _

_He was the only founding member of Project Rebirth to die of natural causes._

One last transition saw Steve staring at his own face; not as Captain America but as himself. The candid shot showed pre-serum Steve Rogers at Camp Lehigh, wearing the plain t-shirt that hung off his frame and dog tags around his neck. He hadn't even known this photograph existed. He remembered how proud he had felt the first time he'd donned his dog tags, wondering whether the father he had never met was proud of him too.

_Believed dead for nearly seventy years, Captain Steven Rogers was discovered in 2012 in the Arctic circle. He was perfectly preserved in ice._

_He continues his work as Captain America and leads S.H.I.E.L.D. initiative, the Avengers, alongside Iron Man._

The screen faded to black one final time as the music reached its crescendo and the crew names started to roll. Steve remained, still clutching the compass in one hand. With his other, he brought his fingers up to lightly run over the newsprint of Peggy's face.

He hadn't been prepared – _why had no one prepared him?_ – when he'd sat in his apartment, flipped Tony Starks' S.H.I.E.L.D. file over (included for reference) and seen Peggy's file with the red **KILLED IN ACTION** stamped diagonally across the centre.

**CARTER, MARGARET**

DOB: 04/09/1919

DOD: 07/04/1947

Cause of Death: Significant blunt force trauma; Pulmonary Haemorrhage

Other relatable injuries: Tympanic membrane rupture; Fracture to right femur; Severe burns to right-side of face; Smoke inhalation

Steve had done the only thing he could do in this day and age – he'd taken to the internet. He'd read every report from that day; every statement including those by Howard Stark, his butler, Edwin Jarvis, and an Agent Daniel Sousa; the minutes taken by the court clerk at the inquest; the Wikipedia page; more newspaper articles than he could count… he'd read until four-thirty the following morning when his eyes itched with tiredness and the alarm clock blared to tell him it was time for his morning run.

And so, he'd gone running. He'd run faster and harder than he'd ever run before. He'd lapped Sam Wilson more than twice his usual amount of times. He'd run until his chest burned, actually _burned_, and he was short of breath. It was like returning to his pre-serum self when he had suffered from asthma attacks. He'd run until he couldn't run anymore. It still wasn't enough. He knew that if he stopped then he would start to imagine it – a blazing fire, the sound of someone cloying for breath, a pale limb buried beneath a pile of rubble…

He'd taken himself to the basement gym in the S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. He'd wrapped his hands tightly, foregoing the boxing gloves, and started violently sparring with the punching bag. No one approached him. No one dared. He hadn't beaten his frustrations out like this since first waking from the ice, when Fury had approached him with the Avengers initiative. This punching bag was sturdier than the ones in the New York boxing club so, instead of punching them out of the ceiling, he simply kept hitting until his knuckles were bloody. It must have been hours since he'd started. His knuckles had already tried to heal themselves three times; the skin attempting to knit itself back together even as Steve's punches tore it apart again.

_Significant…_ **BAM**… _trauma…_ **THUMP**… _blazing fire… _**SMACK**… _haemorrhage_…**swiiiiing**… _rupture_… **WHACK**… _cloying for breath… _**THUMP**… _fracture…_ **BAM**… _burns_… **swiiiiing**… _inhalation. A pale limb. Significant Trauma. Cloying for breath. Severe burns. _**BAM! BAM! BAM!**

He had only stopped when the sweat running into his eyes had made it difficult to see before finally realising that it wasn't sweat at all, but unshed tears. That had surprised him. Steve Rogers didn't cry – pre-or-post-serum. The last time he had allowed himself to cry was when Bucky had died and before that his Ma.

"Er… sir?"

Steve blinked himself back into the present. It was silent now. The screen playing the film had turned off and the lights in the room had lifted. The mother and daughter were both gone.

A pimply kid in a Smithsonian Institute Tour Guide polo shirt was staring at him.

"If you wanna watch the video again then you're gonna have to wait forty-five minutes 'til the next screening," the kid told him.

"No, thanks. I've seen enough," Steve said, gruffly. He snapped the compass closed and pocketed it.

The kid tipped his head sideways, looking at him. "Have I seen you 'round before?"

"I don't think so," Steve replied, nudging his baseball cap a little further down his forehead. He stood to leave. "Thanks."

Steve walked through the rest of the exhibit without taking anything in. He knew this shouldn't have affected him as strongly as it did. In all honesty, the likelihood of him waking up seventy years after he'd 'died' and expecting Peggy to still be alive was absurd, but it was the senselessness of her death, the brutality of it, that kept him awake at night.

Steve found himself out on the National Mall. It was still crowded but less oppressive than the enclosed exhibition had been. Away from the carefully constructed atmosphere of the museum, he discovered that he could breathe easier and think clearer.

He needed answers and he needed them now. And, most importantly, he thought he knew where he could find them.

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I always listen to (mostly) instrumental music when writing as I find the mood and emotions of the music influence my writing greatly. So, for the first time, I am going to be giving recommendations to pieces of music that you may wish to listen to during certain sections of chapters. I have no idea if it'll work but here we go:

**Format: From 'quote from story' (paragraph number) to 'quote from story' (paragraph number)/end of the song/end of the chapter: **_**name of song, artist and album**_

From 'A symbol to the nation.' (P1) to 'He ducked into a small room' (mid-P4): _The Smithsonian_ _by Henry Jackman from Captain America: The Winter Soldier OST._

From 'The Scientific Strategic Reserve continued…' (P29) to the end of the song: _'Cold' by Jorge Mendez from Fragments: vol. III_


	2. A Journey into the Past

Thank you to everyone who took the time to read chapter one. Hopefully, if you're reading this now then you enjoyed it enough to come back for more – so thank you again!

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**The Broken, the Beaten and the Damned**

**Chapter 2**

The Harley-Davidson WLA rolled to a stop before Steve killed the engine, pressing a foot into the gravel to steady both himself and the motorcycle. The scent of the ocean was heavy in the air. He'd stopped on the driveway of a neat Hamptons cottage with lobelia's growing in window boxes beneath the painted sash windows and a bench on the porch. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled the scrap of paper Tony had given him out to check the address as the front door opened.

An elderly man leaning heavily on a cane stood in the doorway, a polite smile on his face. "Ahh, Captain Rogers, Master Stark said to expect you by lunchtime."

Steve hauled himself off of the bike. "Mr. Jarvis, it's a pleasure to meet you, sir."

"Likewise, Captain, likewise," the former butler said with a voice cracked with age. Mr. Jarvis (as Steve would call him, following Tony's surprisingly reverent lead) was a papery man in his late nineties who looked as though a gust of wind would knock him down. His appearance, however, belied an insightful and knowledgeable mind. He was fully coherent with an excellent memory and, Steve would learn, a sharpness of wit. Steve trotted up the steps of the porch and shook hands with the elder gentleman as he said. "I have lunch prepared in the sitting room."

"You really needn't have gone to any trouble, Mr. Jarvis," Steve said.

"Nonsense." Mr. Jarvis flapped a hand. "It is my honour to host you, Captain."

Steve couldn't help the smile that spread across his face at the sincerity of Mr. Jarvis' comment. _This_ was a person who cared for Steve Rogers, as opposed to his alter-ego, and it was surprisingly refreshing.

"This way, Captain Rogers," Mr. Jarvis said, leading him into the cottage.

Steve followed the elderly gentleman as he shuffled down the main corridor. Mr. Jarvis' grip on his walking cane was tight, the mottled blue veins of his hand threatening to burst through the thin skin. His posture, however, was uncompromisingly rigid from years of service. They entered a comfortable sitting room whose French doors opened onto the neat garden and overlooked the Atlantic Ocean. Mr. Jarvis seemed to notice Steve's gaze.

"A lovely view isn't it?" he said. "Master Stark rather outdid himself when he set my wife and I up in our retirement."

Despite the light tone, Steve detected the slightest hint of weariness – as though he expected Steve to disapprove of Tony's generosity.

"Tony thinks very highly of you," Steve said reassuringly. "He looks after the people who mean something to him. From what I've heard, you did a lot for him over the years. It's only natural he should want to repay that."

Tension alleviated, Mr. Jarvis motioned for Steve to sit in one of the floral chintz armchairs. Mr. Jarvis, however, remained standing and moved to the oak sideboard where a steaming pot of coffee stood beside a three-tiered cake stand with sandwiches, pastries and cakes.

"What would you like, Captain Rogers?" Mr. Jarvis asked. "The sandwiches are salmon and cream cheese, ham and cucumber or egg salad."

Steve wanted to protest but noticed that Mr. Jarvis seemed to be enjoying himself, relishing the opportunity to host a guest. He supposed he _was_ hungry. In a rather short amount of time, Steve was situated with a cup of coffee and a heaping plate of food. Mr. Jarvis finally took his seat, hitching the cuffs of his pants up as he did so. It was such an old habit, forgotten by many in today's world, that Steve couldn't help but smile.

Steve took a bite of his sandwich and chewed appreciatively. Once he'd swallowed, he said, "This is good."

Mr. Jarvis looked elated. "The secret is a squeeze of lemon juice."

When they'd both eaten their fill, they set their plates to one side and Steve finally began. "I suppose, Mr. Jarvis, you're wondering why I'm here."

"Not at all, Captain Rogers. I presume you are here to ask me about my relationship with Miss Carter," Mr. Jarvis said. "Purely platonic, of course. I was happily married when we met, and she was still mourning the loss of yourself, as it happens. She and I became unlikely partners in solving crime."

"Really?" Steve asked, an eyebrow quirking upwards in amusement.

"Oh yes; we were thrown together by Mr. Stark during the fiasco of his weapons being stolen and sold on the Black Market. I'm afraid to say I got quite the taste for adventure and espionage," he said with no hint of remorse or lament.

"It sounds as though the pair of you had quite the adventure," Steve said.

"Yes, I would rather say we did. But," he added with a sigh, "I assume there is only one adventure you truly want to talk about."

Steve nodded solemnly. "I read your statement. I know you were with her the day she…"

"Died?" Mr. Jarvis filled in gently. "Yes, yes I was there."

"Can you tell me about it?" Steve asked. Mr. Jarvis looked at him steadily and he faltered. "I'm sorry; it's probably not something you want to think about. I shouldn't have asked."

"Curiosity is not a sin, Captain Rogers. You cared for Miss Carter; perhaps you still do. I just have one question – if you'll permit this old man."

"Go ahead."

"Why now? From what I have heard from Master Stark, you have been back on solid ground, so to speak, for over two years. Why have you waited so long?"

Steve hesitated, thinking the question through. "I guess now felt like the right time," he finally said. "Like you said, it's been over two years and yet I'm still adjusting to modern life. My work with the Avengers kept me busy and for a while, it was like nothing had changed. Sure, the bullies attacking were now aliens as opposed to Nazi's, but I was doing the only thing I knew how to do – fighting and leading.

'I'm grateful that we're living in a time of relative peace and I wouldn't wish a war upon anyone, but I can't help feeling redundant. For as long as I can remember, I just wanted to do what was right. And I thought I could throw myself back in; follow orders; serve. It's just not the same. I can't help but wonder whether this world still needs Captain America."

"My dear boy," Mr. Jarvis said, and Steve couldn't help but feel the twist of irony, "You are only now experiencing what many felt after the war. We'd fought and we'd won; we'd had a sense of purpose but that was now gone, what were we to do next? It was a question that caused quite the headscratcher for many governments around the world. Now you must do what we had to learn to do – adjust, grow, and move on."

Steve's mouth quirked upwards. "It's nice to talk to someone who understands."

"Youth always thinks they are the misunderstood ones."

Steve's small smile turned into a grin and he rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "I thought looking into the past would allow me to close that door on my life. I thought it would help. And it did, to an extent." His grin faded. "I hadn't even realised, until I found out the truth, that I'd been imagining this great life for Peggy. It turns out I'd had these images of her living this long and fulfilling life where she moved on, settled down, maybe had a couple of kids and taught the world a thing or two about a woman's worth. Now I know the truth. This unavoidable, inescapable truth."

Mr. Jarvis was smiling rather sadly at Steve. "You sound just like her," he said softly. "Her greatest regret was that you never had the chance to live your life."

"She didn't deserve to die like that."

"No, she didn't," Mr. Jarvis agreed.

Steve looked at him with a quiet intensity. "Please tell me what happened that day."

"I can tell you as much as I know," Mr. Jarvis said, "I only ask that you do not judge either myself or Mr. Stark too harshly for all that came to pass."


	3. 4th July, 1947

This chapter is a fairly long one. It's longer than chapters 1 and 2 combined. I hope you enjoy!

**CHAPTER WARNINGS:** This chapter will further explore events alluded to in Chapter 1. There will be graphic descriptions of the events of a bombing and bombing-related injuries. For that reason, I have upped the rating from T to M. Reader's discretion is advised.

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**The Broken, the Beaten and the Damned**

**Chapter 3**

_Malibu, 1947_

The Fourth of July celebratory Stark Expo was a roaring success, as far as Howard was concerned. The Californian sunshine was beating down over the ground of his shiny, new Malibu facility; families strolled over the lawns, taking in every new spectacle that was on offer; his glass was never empty and he'd already had four, rather striking girls slip their business cards into his shirt pocket. Yep, all in all, today was shaping up to be a pretty great day.

"Well you've gone and done it again, Stark," Senator Downey was commending him, shaking his hand vigorously. They stood out on the lawn, shaded from the sun by the parasol held by Jarvis. "I haven't seen this many smiling faces since the first V.E. Day. You know, I could do with a man like you in my office."

"I appreciate that, sir, but I'm an inventor – not a politician. Besides, I'm pretty caught up with my work at the moment."

"Oh yes, I've heard about this new initiative of yours. You're planning on turning the SSR into the Defence of the Homeland, or something like that."

Howard shrugged. "We haven't settled on a name yet."

"Well I hope you know what you're doing," Senator Downey said.

Howard held his arms out widely. "Not a clue! But if we didn't make changes, roll with the times, then where would we be, Senator?"

Senator Downey guffawed. "You've got gall, Stark, I'll give you that."

Howard clapped the senator on the shoulder. "If you'll excuse me, it looks as though some more of my guests have just arrived. Have a great day and hey, don't forget to check out the hover car – it's come on leaps and bounds since New York."

Senator Downey left and Howard turned to his new guests. Peggy, wearing a green tea dress and red sunglasses, approached with Daniel in a cashmere suit. His right arm was linked through hers while his left hand held onto his signature crutch.

"Well don't you two look nice. I see California is suitin' you, Peg."

"Yes, well, with Thompson's shooter still at large, it's difficult to tear myself away," she replied dryly.

"Uh-huh, I'm sure that ain't the only thing difficult to tear yourself away from," he retorted, smirking.

She rolled her eyes at him. "Can't you hold your own parasol?" she asked, changing the subject. "Poor Mr. Jarvis' face is tomato red."

"I'm quite all right, Miss Carter," Jarvis said, "a little sunburn wouldn't slow me down. Although I do thank you for your concern."

"See? He's fine. Now, you seen the new digs yet?"

"No, we've just arrived," Daniel answered.

"C'mon, I'll give you the personal tour."

"Please don't forget you're due on stage in less than thirty minutes, Mr. Stark," Jarvis reminded. Howard waved a dismissive hand and continued heading towards the new Stark Industries facility, reeling off the amenities it offered.

"It's good to see you again, Mr. Jarvis," Daniel said as they followed after Howard. He, unlike Peggy, had not spent breakfast with Ana and Edwin Jarvis that morning in Howard's Los Angeles home.

"And you, Agent Sousa."

Howard led them into the lobby of the new facility. It was bright and airy with a large reception desk where a middle-aged woman wearing glasses sat working. The lobby had floor to wall glass windows that looked into the labs, showing shiny (and presumably expensive) equipment. Groups of guests wandered through the lobby, looking interestedly into the labs through the glass barrier. The Stark Expo was in equal parts about celebrating the Fourth of July, exhibiting Howard's fancy inventions and unveiling the new facility.

"I'm hopin' today will bring in some more investors," Howard admitted to his friends. "The facility isn't completely operational yet, and I'm still waitin' to fully staff the place, but once we've transferred the SSR to our new division, I'm hopin' this can act as a West Coast headquarters."

Howard led them into his office which looked much more traditional than the rest of the facility. It had windows that overlooked the crowded grounds, a bookshelf that lined the opposite wall and highly polished furniture. On the far wall was –

"Good _lord_, Howard."

A life-size portrait of Howard hung on the wall, painted in oil. The artist, whether through imagination or Howard's insistence, had put rather a large emphasis on Howard's nether region, causing the eye to be instantly drawn to it. Peggy supposed she shouldn't have been surprised – in her bedroom at Howard's mansion she had not one, but two paintings of her host on the walls. She was now counting herself lucky that those images started from his shoulders and worked their way upwards.

"Don't you like it?" he asked, sounding crestfallen. "I was thinkin' of gettin' a version of you painted for your office."

Peggy dreaded to think what would be emphasised in _her_ painting. "I haven't even agreed to anything yet," she reminded him.

"You will," he said confidently.

"So what happens with Camp Lehigh?" she asked, mainly to change the subject.

"That will still be ground zero," Howard reassured her. "I'm just thinkin' ahead for when we expand."

"It certainly looks as though you've put a lot of time and effort into this place," Daniel commented.

"Wait 'til you see the rest."

"You mean there's more?" Daniel asked.

"Oh yeah, pal. There's more all right." Howard led them to the bookshelf with a grin. He pressed a book inward and the bookshelf split apart, swinging outwards to reveal an oval shaped bulwark door. He said, "I've always wanted one of these."

Producing an identity card on a lanyard from his pants pocket, Howard swiped it through a locking device and the door unlocked with a hiss. He spun the handle and pulled the door outwards before leading the way inside.

"Mind the step," he warned them.

Peggy stepped daintily over the raised threshold and found herself following Howard down a narrow corridor that was reinforced with steel. The confined space made her feel as though she was walking through a submarine. They finally reached the end of the corridor where there was a second bulwark door. Howard opened this one, using the same method as before and they entered a lab.

This lab was smaller than the ones leading off from the main lobby and there wasn't a single window, let alone any walls made entirely of glass. Similar to the corridor, the lab was reinforced with steel. It was also brightly lit with a pulsating, purple glow.

Peggy followed Howard to the centre of the lab where Jason Wilkes stood, engrossed in his work as he scribbled on a sheaf of papers attached to a clipboard. Peggy paused, mouth agape, and looked around.

"Howard, what the _hell_ have you been up to?" she demanded.

Towering over them in a semi-circle around the room were four large glass chambers with copper tubing at the top and bottom. Within each chamber was a shifting mass of Zero Matter. The black substances pulsed, expanding and shrinking in their confines. One moment it looked solid, then liquid, then gas, then a combination of all three.

"What does it look like?" Howard asked, beaming.

"It looks as though you've lost your bloody minds!"

"Be reasonable, Peg," he implored her. "Look, all we did was open up the universe a tiny bit and extract a little Zero Matter each time. We've done it four times now, and it's worked a charm every time."

"Four times?!" Daniel demanded. "Are you insane? Do you not remember what happened the last time this stuff was messed around with?"

"We're bein' careful," Howard said defensively.

"I'm sure Isodyne thought they were being careful too!" Peggy retorted.

"I take it you've been using the rift generator to 'open up the universe', as you put it?" Daniel asked.

"That's right," Jason joined the conversation, unable to resist the lure of science, "We make a small tear and extract what we need before closing it right up again with the gamma ray gun. All in all, it's minimal risk." He looked directly at Peggy. "There is so much about Zero Matter that we don't know or understand but if we explore this then we could open up a whole world of opportunities."

"Or you could destroy us all," she said dryly. Peggy sighed. "Jason, I get it, all right? I understand that to you Zero Matter is this incredible, unexplored thing full of possibilities but what about what it did to you? You almost lost everything because of Zero Matter. Are you really willing to risk that again?"

"That won't happen this time," Jason assured her. "As Mr. Stark said, we _are_ being careful."

"Well I hope you're right about that, buddy," Daniel said agitatedly. "Y'know, I have half a mind to confiscate and destroy all of this for the interests of the American people?"

"You could try," Howard said with the faintest note of apology in his voice, "but I would remind you that I _am_ due to become your boss."

"You haven't taken over the SSR yet, Mr. Stark," Daniel spat acerbically.

An uncomfortable silence fell as Howard and Jason glared at Daniel whilst he glared right back. Jarvis stepped between the three men.

"Not to break up this little tête-à-tête," Jarvis cut in smoothly, "but you're due onstage in five minutes, Mr. Stark."

Howard checked his watch. "Right you are, Jarvis. Lead the way."

Jarvis turned to retreat back down the corridor, followed by Howard and Daniel. Jason picked up his clipboard again.

"Are you not coming?" Peggy asked him.

"I'm more at home here in the lab," Jason admitted. He looked past her to the retreating back of Daniel. "Plus, I don't think your _boyfriend_ likes me much."

"Can you blame him?" she asked. "You did pull a gun on me once."

"I think we both know it's more than just that," he replied smoothly.

Peggy's mouth snapped shut. She gave a brisk nod before following after Daniel. Jason accompanied her to the door and closed it, using his I.D. card to lock the door behind her. When she was halfway down the corridor leading back to Howard's office, Daniel spun around to face her.

"Can you believe those guys?" he asked heatedly.

"Honestly? Yes," she admitted. At Daniel's incredulous look, she elaborated, "They're scientists, Daniel. They're never happy unless they're discovering something new. I don't agree with what they're doing, and I'd be far happier if Zero Matter was left in the far reaches of space or a different dimension or wherever the hell it comes from, but I can't blame them for wanting to know more. Who knows? Perhaps it'll be the greatest discovery since penicillin."

"Or radium," he responded dryly.

"I just hope they know what they're doing," she said, worrying at her lower lip. She noticed Daniel's eyes were fixated on her mouth. "What?"

He dragged his eyes up to meet hers. "Have I told you how beautiful you look today?"

She grinned. "I suppose you just did."

He pulled her in for a kiss, wrapping an arm around her waist. He would have enjoyed taking the time to thoroughly explore her mouth had their moment not been interrupted by Howard.

"C'mon lovebirds, places to be, people to see and all that."

Daniel groaned, breaking away. "Why are you friends with this guy?"

"He happens to be exceptional."

"Yeah, when it suits him," Daniel groused.

She swiped her thumb across his mouth, ridding it of the lipstick her kiss had left behind before following after Howard with Daniel trailing behind.

* * *

Out on the grounds, the sun was still shining as Howard started to wrap up his demonstration. There'd been appreciative 'oohs' and 'ahhs' from the assembled audience as his new toys were displayed. Howard had positively charmed the pants (and, in the case of the women, skirts) off of the crowd. Peggy, Daniel and Jarvis stood in a roped-off V.I.P. section, watching Howard's exhibition alongside political leaders, movie stars and world-renowned scientists.

"Now, remember, folks, the festivities don't stop here!" Howard said with his winning smile. "We have refreshments available all afternoon includin' a barbeque this evenin'. There will be a special performance later this evenin' from the girls of the original Captain America USO tour. And, of course, it wouldn't be the Fourth of July without a terrific firework display tonight."

The crowd cheered and clapped in appreciation. Howard raised a hand to wave at his admiring audience when the first bomb exploded.

* * *

For the first time in two years, Peggy felt as though she was back on a European battlefield – except this time there were men, women and children in equal measure writhing on the ground in agony. Screams rent the air – mothers calling for their children, husbands for their wives. The blast had torn through the stage, debris flying in all directions as the audience were thrown backwards.

Peggy had lost track of Jarvis and Daniel. She'd landed in the grass, hard, at least twenty yards from where she had been standing. The brilliant blue sky from earlier was blocked out by the dust and smoke that filled the air. Peggy sat up, feeling woozy. There was a high-pitched ringing in her right ear. She felt it tentatively and her hand came away with blood on the fingertips. _Not good_.

Slowly, Peggy pulled herself to her feet. The injury to her ear made her feel unsteady and off-balance but she pushed past it, directing the crowd away from the wreckage of the stage. The civilians who had been further away from the explosion began to surge forward, offering assistance to the victims and aiding the evacuation of the site. For many, their training during the Second World War kicked in. Peggy continued to guide people towards safety, even as she forced herself further into the fray, moving on autopilot. The only thing she could think of was how Howard had been onstage when the explosion occurred.

She reached the smoking rubble that had once been the stage and shouted his name, barely able to hear herself over the ringing in her ear. She searched every face that passed her, looking for someone familiar. Every person appeared to be bloodied and covered in dust, their best clothes ruined, and Peggy presumed she looked the same. Eventually, through the smoke, she saw the recognisable form of Jarvis, crouched on the floor and digging through the wreck. He'd lost his jacket somewhere and his sleeves were rolled up. His hair fell forwards and rivulets of sweat streaked through the dust on his face. She was relieved to see that he seemed relatively unhurt.

Peggy ran to him and immediately knelt at his side. Howard, she could now see, was half buried beneath the wreckage of the stage. He had a bloody gash on his hairline and his ankle, which Jarvis had already unburied, was twisted to a sickening angle.

"Peg," he coughed in greeting. "Look at that, you're in an explosion and you still look a million bucks."

"God damn you, Howard." She almost cried with relief. "You must have nine lives."

"Perhaps a few less now," he responded with a weak grin that turned into a wince.

Peggy joined Jarvis in shifting the rubble away from Howard, particularly the pieces that were weighing down on his chest.

"Where's Daniel?" Howard asked.

"I don't know," Peggy answered, the tightness of her tone indicating her concern.

"He's all right," Jarvis inputted, "A little dazed but nothing major. When we parted, he was going to search for you whilst I searched for Mr. Stark."

"Good," Peggy sighed, the knot of anxiety in her stomach loosened a little at hearing that Daniel was safe. They finally managed to clear the debris enough to manoeuvre Howard free. He gritted his teeth against the pain as his broken ankle was jostled. They propped him up into a sitting position.

"I need a scotch," he said.

"You need a doctor," Jarvis replied.

Peggy looked around at the desolation surrounding them. It was clear to her that this was not an invention-gone-wrong; someone had taken the time and effort to plan this attack. "Who could you have possibly pissed off this time?"

"I honestly don't know," Howard said truthfully.

"Come on, let's get you out of here." She and Jarvis stood, Peggy using the latter's arm to steady herself, before hauling Howard up onto his good foot. They each took one of his arms across their shoulders and started to pick their way over the uneven ground. The crowd that Peggy had pushed through on her way to Howard had already started to disperse, so it took a lot less time to reach the perimeter of devastation.

A burly gentleman was bellowing over the din of the crowd. "Emergency services are on their way; anyone with medical training please report to the refreshment tent. Minor injuries to the left. Major injuries to the right."

"Who is that?" Peggy asked Howard.

"No idea but he seems to know what he's doing."

"If you are lost or have lost someone," the gentleman continued, "then please report to the lobby of the Stark Industries building where an Agent Sousa will greet you."

Peggy felt another knot in her stomach unravel. "Daniel," she breathed in relief.

"C'mon," Howard said, trying to steer them towards the building.

"What are you doing? You need to see a doctor," Peggy berated him.

"No," he said firmly. He looked around at all of the people. "Not before any of these."

Peggy's expression softened, as did her tone, "Howard… this wasn't your fault. You couldn't have known this was to happen."

"Even so."

"I suppose we could help Agent Sousa in reconnecting those people that are lost with their loved ones – at least until the emergency services arrive and Mr. Stark can acquire appropriate medical assistance," Jarvis suggested over Howard's head. Peggy recognised a compromise.

"That sounds like a marvellous idea." She shot Jarvis a grateful smile before they made their slow way towards the Stark Industries facility. They moved in a strange imitation of a three-legged race, with Howard hobbling between them and Peggy leaning more heavily into him that she would care to admit.

Howard seemed to notice, looking at her bleeding right ear. "Peg, your hurt…"

"It's nothing," she lied, turning her head to catch his words with her good ear. Although the ringing had lessened, she still wasn't entirely sure sound was penetrating her right ear at all. Silently, she prayed the damage wasn't permanent – it would be just the kind of excuse her superiors would jump on in order to get rid of her.

They reached the lobby of Stark Industries where uninjured civilians were trying to take charge of the chaos as people frantically searched for missing loved ones. A large gaggle of children of all ages stood in the centre of the lobby, lost and confused. In the throng of the crowd, co-ordinating it all, was Daniel. He was assisted by another gentleman she recognised from the Californian branch of the SSR, who must have also been visiting the Stark Expo. Even as Daniel worked, Peggy could see him scanning every face that passed by with a frown of worry. Eventually, his eyes locked on hers. He visibly sagged with relief before limping towards the trio.

For the moment, he ignored both Howard and Jarvis. His hands reached out to grasp her forearms tightly. "When I came around and you weren't there…"

"I know. I'm sorry."

His eyes swept across her to Howard and Jarvis. "We have bigger problems," he said grimly.

"Bigger than this?" Howard asked, looking pointedly at the mayhem surrounding them.

"When I first arrived, it was to find your receptionist with a bullet hole through her skull, so yeah, bigger than this."

"A _hit_?" Jarvis asked, incredulously.

"It looks like it," Daniel nodded. "We removed her body to one of the labs off of the lobby before everyone else arrived."

"Why would anyone want your receptionist dead?" Peggy asked Howard.

"She made a terrible cup of coffee."

"_Howard_."

"Sorry, Peg, gallows humour," he winced apologetically. "Death makes me morbid."

Peggy chewed on her bottom lip, thinking. "She was far enough away from the blast that I doubt she saw anything incriminating, unless…"

"The bomb wasn't about Mr. Stark at all," Jarvis inputted, eyes widening with realisation, "but rather the work he has been doing."

"It was a distraction," she finished, aghast. She turned briskly to Daniel. Later, the irony of Daniel – the Californian Chief of the SSR, and therefore her superior – being ordered around by Peggy would kick in but right now the urgency of the situation took precedence. "Daniel, phone your people. Tell them a highly dangerous substance has been stolen from Stark Industries. Tell them to set up a blockade on every road leading away from here and that they are to search every passing vehicle. Warn them that what they are dealing with, and potentially _who_ they are dealing with, is highly dangerous. They are _not_ to touch or interfere with anything they find."

He turned and hobbled towards the telephone at the reception desk.

"We need to get down to the lab to see how much has been taken," Howard said, trying to pull from Peggy and Jarvis' grip and cursing loudly when he jarred his broken ankle.

"No offense, Howard, but you shan't be going anywhere in the state you're in."

"All right," he sighed, "At least take me with you to my office. I can remain on standby whilst you check the lab."

Peggy and Jarvis hauled Howard the rest of the way to his office and, once there, deposited him behind his desk. He landed in the chair with a groan. His pallor had turned grey and Peggy resolved to insist he received medical attention once she and Jarvis had inspected the lab.

"Here, take this." He handed Jarvis his ID card.

"Which book activates the doors?"

"Middle shelf, to the left. _Tropic of Cancer_," Howard said.

"I thought _Tropic of Cancer_ was banned in this country," Peggy replied.

"It is," Howard said with a salacious grin. "I know a guy."

Peggy pushed the correct book inward and the doors swung open as they had seen happen earlier that same day, revealing the bulwark door. Jarvis swiped the ID card through the locking device with the familiar hiss, turned the handle and pulled the door open. They were about to walk through when Howard suddenly called them back.

"Wait, take this too." In his hand, he held out a black two-way radio. "Keep me up to date."

"We shouldn't even be that long," Peggy complained but crossed the room to accept the radio anyway. "Any other requests?"

"A photo of you in a bikini? Wait, wait! I already have a head injury!"

Peggy lowered her fist. "Stay here until we get back."

"Hilarious," he replied drolly, propping his useless foot up on the desk.

Peggy followed Jarvis into the narrow corridor and back towards the Zero Matter lab, treading lightly in case whoever had orchestrated these events was still around.

"Not to sound too paranoid, Miss Carter," Jarvis said quietly, "but I don't suppose you should have a weapon on you, by any chance?"

He turned to see Peggy hitching up her skirt and pulling a handgun out of a holster strapped to her thigh. Jarvis quickly averted his gaze. "I always have a weapon," she reassured him. She looked between him and the weapon in her hand before adding, "I should probably go first."

"And to think," Jarvis said faintly, "I told Ana today was going to be rather quiet."

They continued walking and, when they reached the end of the corridor, were dismayed to see that the second bulwark door stood open. Jarvis followed Peggy into the lab.

"Oh dear."

Jason lay on the floor in a pool of blood. Peggy sighed with sad resignation and re-holstered her weapon. "Gunshot wound to the head. Just like the receptionist."

"And yet the Zero Matter is still here," Jarvis added, confusion lacing his tone. Looking up, Peggy saw that he was correct. The four chambers still contained the same amount of pulsating black substance as earlier.

A frown puckered Peggy's brow as she stepped closer to the chambers. "So if they weren't here to steal the Zero Matter, then what were they here to do?"

"To destroy it," Jarvis said, hollowly.

Peggy turned towards him, still frowning, to see that Jarvis had lost all colour to his face. He was gazing fixatedly at a spot on the floor. Peggy followed his sightline to see a second bomb, nestled between the two middle chambers. A wind-up alarm clock was affixed to a pipe with wires trailing out of it. She stepped closer and squinted at the clockface, it was counting down slowly. She estimated that they had four minutes before the bomb was due to explode. Taking a deep breath, she raised Howard's radio to her mouth and pressed the button, saying in her calmest voice, "Howard, there's a second bomb."

"_What?_" his tinny voice exploded back through.

"A second bomb," she repeated, "Set between two chambers of Zero Matter. We need to get everyone out of the building, now."

"_I'm on it,_" she heard Howard say followed by a groan and a curse.

She turned to Jarvis. "He won't make it, not on that foot."

"We'll have to evacuate them ourselves."

They moved back towards the bulwark door. As Jarvis was about to step through, Peggy called him back. He turned towards her.

"Yes, Miss Ca-oof!"

Peggy's kick hit him squarely in the stomach, throwing him backwards. As he tripped over the raised threshold of the bulwark door, throwing his hands out for balance, Peggy snatched the lanyard and identity card out of his hand. Jarvis landed painfully, sprawled out on the floor of the corridor.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Jarvis."

Peggy reached out and pulled the bulwark door shut before turning the handle swiftly, even as Jarvis jumped to his feet. Using Howard's ID card, she slotted it through the locking device and, for the fourth time that day, heard the hiss of the lock. Jarvis peered at her through the small window with the reinforced glass.

"Miss Carter, open this door at once!" his muffled voice came through.

"Go back, Mr. Jarvis," Peggy ordered. "Take Howard and evacuate the building. _Now!_"

His head flicked around as he ran back the way they had come. Peggy ran towards the white med kit box on the wall with the red cross in the centre. She popped it open and pushed through the first aid supplies until she came to the scissors that she needed. Taking them with her, she returned to where the bomb sat snugly between the chambers, trying to recall everything Dernier had ever taught her on the European battlefields about explosives.

_Red, blue… no, blue, yellow, red… no. Oh God!_

It had been during that painful period of just losing Steve. The Howling Commandos had taken her under their wing, providing a much-needed respite from the mourning that she was trying so desperately to keep at bay. Dernier had said… _oh God, __**what **__had Dernier said? _Most of it had been incessant French babbling, meant to distract her, but his passion for explosives and her curiosity in learning anything new had led to him showing her how to diffuse a bomb.

"_Peggy? Peggy! Damn it, Carter; answer this radio! NOW!"_

Frustratedly, Peggy grabbed the radio and stabbed her thumb down on the button. "Howard, I am trying to concentrate."

"_Are you out of your mind?_" he demanded. His voice crackled with static, "_I don't know what you're trying to prove but… you don't gotta do this, Peg. Peg…? D'you hear me?"_

There was a pause, and then –

"_Miss Carter, this is Mr. Jarvis_," the Englishman unnecessarily introduced himself. "_Please rethink your actions. If you do not, then I will be forced to find Mr. Stark's back-up card and remove you from the lab myself."_

"We don't have time for this!" she snapped into the radio. "I can do this, Mr. Jarvis, I just need to _think_! Now, listen to me carefully, there's less than two and a half minutes left on this countdown and if things should go wrong…" she released the button momentarily as her nose burned with oncoming tears. She forced them down, inhaled deeply and straightened her spine. Stabbing her thumb down on the transmitter once more, she continued briskly, "Mr. Jarvis, there are currently a vast number of civilians in the lobby, most of whom are _children_! So listen to me when I tell you to grab Howard, get into the bloody lobby and for God's sake, evacuate them!"

Another pause. "_Right you are, Miss Carter."_

She breathed a sigh of relief, hoping she would now be free to think. Something was coming back to her. Dernier, coaching her through the diffusion of a dummy explosive. _"Rouge," he said, as she snipped through the first wire. "Toujours commencer par le rouge." _Then she'd been distracted by the arrival of…

Peggy snatched up the radio again. "Howard! Howard, can you hear me?"

"_I hear ya, Peg. What's – will you stop pullin' me, Jarvis? I told you, I ain't goin'!_"

"Dernier," she said without preamble, cutting him off. "He taught us how to cut the wires on a bomb, do you remember?"

"'_Red, always start with red',_" Howard recalled, and Peggy could have laughed or cried with relief. Perhaps both.

"What came next?" she pressed.

"_Er…_" She could almost hear Howard trying to recall the memory. "_Blue, no yellow, no… hang on…" _Continuing in butchered French, he said, "'_Jaune et bleu. Bien et facile.'_"

Peggy beamed. "Good, that's good! Well done, Howard. Now, get yourself out of here and I'll see you soon."

1 minute 30 seconds.

_Rouge, toujours commencer par le rouge_. She picked up the scissors and, steeling herself against what could possibly happen next, severed the red wire into two. So far, so good. _Jaune et bleu_. Taking a deep breath, she snipped through the yellow and then the blue wire in quick succession. _Bien et facile_. Good and easy.

The second hand quivered for a moment before defiantly continuing its countdown.

_Oh_. The last piece of sage advice from Dernier returned to her – always ensure the wires were integral to the defusing of the bomb and not, in fact, for show. A sleight of hand trick designed to waste precious time.

60 seconds.

She'd witnessed the devastation one small amount of Zero Matter had caused at the explosion of the Isodyne laboratory in Los Angeles. Would Howard's steel-reinforced lab and bulwark door contain the explosion as he had planned, in the case of an emergency? She sincerely hoped so. Peggy dropped the scissors; they were useless now anyway. Picking up the radio, she was surprised that her voice came out even. "Howard… the wires were duds. I couldn't stop it. I'm sorry."

"_Peggy, get yourself out of there_."

She ignored him. "Get everyone clear. Do you hear me, Howard? Get everyone clear!"

He was angry. "_And what about you, huh? What happens to you? What do I tell Daniel?_"

"Tell him…" she faltered before trying again, softly, "Tell him he made me happy. Tell him… I would have said yes."

"_Peggy…_"

"This isn't your fault, Howard. I want you to know that. This. Isn't. Your. Fault."

"_Please don't do this,_" he begged.

She knew those words. She'd _said_ those words. Numbly, she pressed the button on the transmitter down one last time.

"I've never been on this end of the radio before."

* * *

So there we have it. I hope you're enjoying this story so far. I am absolutely loving writing it and cannot wait to share it with you all. I am going to try to keep to my schedule of posting once at the weekend and then once every Wednesday.

French translation: _Rouge, toujours commencer par le rouge. Juane et bleu. Bien et facile_. Red, always start with red. Yellow and blue. Good and easy. I cross-referenced a few websites for the correct translation but I do apologise if I have it wrong.

Music recommendations for Chapter Three:

From 'Malibu, 1947' (P1) to 'Senator Downey left…' (P11): _In the Mood (2010 Remastered) by Glenn Miller and His Orchestra from The Very Best of Glenn Miller_

From: 'It had been during that painful period of just losing Steve.' (P169) to the end of the chapter: _Time by Hans Zimmer from Inception (Music from the Motion Picture)_


	4. The Tale Unfolds

**The Broken, the Beaten and the Damned  
Chapter 4**

There were tears in Mr. Jarvis' eyes.

"And that was it. I had to drag Mr. Stark out of the building in the end. I don't think he ever quite forgave me for that. He fought me every step of the way, even with his broken ankle. We only just made it down the steps of the building when the bomb exploded. And she was… gone."

His voice broke. Mr. Jarvis bowed his head sorrowfully. Steve didn't break the silence – he didn't offer him comfort but nor did he place blame. In all honesty, Steve felt numb. He'd wanted to know, had _desperately_ wanted to know, but now that he did, he wasn't sure how he was supposed to react. _Gone_ – that was a rather gentle way of explaining what had happened. Steve knew; he'd read the file, after all. He doubted Mr. Jarvis wanted to know that she had died choking on her own blood after the smoke inhalation had been too much, that the debris of the room had battered her to a pulp causing 'significant blunt force trauma', or that the right side of her beautiful face had been severely burnt.

"It took them three days to recover the body," Mr. Jarvis finally continued. "You see, Miss Carter had done a wonderful job of containing the explosion. Instead of exploding up and out as it should have done, it had moved downwards, creating a great crater in the cliff and burying her with it. The second explosion should have wiped out everything around it for miles. Miss Carter saved countless lives that day." He sighed. "Mr. Stark took it the hardest. Some days he would hate her for her stubbornness and other days he would applaud her bravery."

"Stubborn but brave," Steve repeated, his voice hoarse from emotion and disuse, "That sounds about right."

"I'm afraid Mr. Stark was never quite the same after that day; I don't suppose any of us were," Mr. Jarvis admitted, "but he most of all. He thought he'd failed, you see – he'd failed to find you and bring you home and he'd failed in protecting Miss Carter. His two dearest friends had both sacrificed themselves for the greater good and, all in all, I rather think Mr. Stark felt that _he_ was the only one who deserved to die. It's funny what grief can do to a person.

'Mr. Stark became more guarded after the events of 1947. He became more work-obsessed, closed-off from the world and his emotions. I'm afraid to say it was Master Stark who bore the brunt of that change in him."

"Did Howard ever use this Zero Matter again?" Steve asked.

"No. He once admitted that the one positive from that day was that the Zero Matter as well as all of his work on it was destroyed," Mr. Jarvis said. "He knew, you see, that even after all of the devastation that Zero Matter had caused, the costs that had been paid, he wouldn't have been able to resist working on it, if it was around. It was safest for everyone if Zero Matter no longer existed."

Steve nodded, recognising the sentiment that also resided in Tony. Reckless genius – perhaps the most dangerous thing of all.

"In all the years that followed, Mr. Stark never returned to the Malibu land. He simply paid to have what remained of the lab bulldozed. I think it was too painful for him. Eventually Master Stark built a mansion on the land that overlooks the ocean."

"Tony's mansion?!" Steve demanded, suddenly feeling ill. "Tony's mansion is built over the place that Peggy died?"

"Yes."

Steve spluttered indignantly. He knew Tony had a habit of disregarding other people's feelings, of only thinking of his own selfish pursuits but… _this?!_

"He doesn't know," Mr. Jarvis told Steve gently, as though reading his mind. "Mr. Stark never spoke of Peggy to his son and… when he showed me the photos of the mansion - he was so proud… I didn't have the heart to tell him."

Steve suddenly got to his feet and paced towards the French doors that looked out over the ocean. How could he have not put the facts together? After the events of the Battle of New York, he and the rest of the Avengers (apart from Thor, who'd returned to Asguard) had retreated to Stark's mansion for a few days of rest and recuperation at Tony's insistence. He'd looked out over the ocean, been impressed with the beautiful view and never known that he was standing on the same site where Peggy had died.

"Well at least the people behind it got what they wanted," Steve said bitterly. He had to focus on something else rather than the memories of drinking with Bruce and dancing with Natasha. "Zero Matter was destroyed, along with Peggy." He turned towards Mr. Jarvis. "Who was it anyway? The Soviets? The Japanese?"

Mr. Jarvis shrugged delicately. "No one ever claimed responsibility."

"Didn't they look into it?"

"Of course they did," Mr. Jarvis said. "There was the inquest, the five-year review, even a private investigation funded by Mr. Stark, but nothing ever came from any of these. They found that the identification card of a scientist Mr. Stark had recently hired had been used to access the lab. Unfortunately, that was a dead end. When they arrived at the scientist's apartment, Dr. Zern had a bullet wound to the skull – the same as the receptionist and Dr. Wilkes. No remaining leads; no evidence. To this day, we don't know who did it. As far as I'm aware, it's still an open S.H.I.E.L.D. investigation."

There was a pause. Steve looked back out at the ocean, but his eyes were far away. Finally, he said, "The Fourth of July. That would've been my twenty-ninth birthday. Perhaps if I'd been here…"

"Don't do that, Captain Rogers. Mr. Stark wasted much of his life on the what could-have, would-have and should-have-been's. It didn't make him any happier. I doubt it will make you happy either."

* * *

"I can't thank you enough, Mr. Jarvis," Steve said as they sat on the bench of the outside porch. The sun was low in the sky. "It can't have been easy for you, to recall all of that."

"To be perfectly frank, Captain Rogers, I think it was long overdue. After his own investigation into what happened that day proved fruitless, Mr. Stark stopped talking of Miss Carter. It was the only way he could cope with the guilt. Sometimes, though, you need to talk about these things."

"You said you didn't want me to think too harshly of yourself and Howard," Steve reminded him. "Why did you say that?"

"We were both weak in our own ways. I allowed Miss Carter to best me when I should have known better. As for Mr. Stark," Mr. Jarvis gave a heaving sigh, "only God knows whether any of this would have happened if he hadn't been developing Zero Matter in his lab. That was something that ate at him until his death. He spent many years trying to make amends."

"He couldn't have known that this would happen," Steve said.

"Couldn't he? He knew Zero Matter was a dangerous substance to work with."

Steve looked at the aged butler shrewdly. "You blame him."

"Not anymore," Mr. Jarvis admitted. "Now, I simply regret that his quest to know about something he didn't fully understand led to the death of a dear friend."

They sat in companionable silence for a moment before Steve broached a topic of conversation that had been burning in him since that afternoon. "So," he tried to say casually, "Daniel Sousa…"

The corner of Mr. Jarvis' lips quirked upwards in amusement. "Yes, Daniel Sousa," he confirmed.

"She loved him."

Mr. Jarvis sighed, "No. I don't think so."

Steve frowned at the elderly gentleman. "But she told Howard to tell him she would have married him."

"She did, you're right; but she wouldn't have," Mr. Jarvis said confidently. Steve didn't respond, only looked at him quizzically. Mr. Jarvis sighed again, "She knew she was going to die, Captain Rogers. I believe she wanted to provide Agent Sousa with some comfort when she was gone – allow him to think she could have loved him."

"But you don't think she would have, if she'd survived?"

"Miss Carter cared for him, but love?" he left the sentence hanging. "She once confided in me that Agent Sousa was in love with the idea of her; as opposed to _her _as a person. I believe it was rather tiresome. She needed to live up to his exceptionally high expectations or face his disappointment. Do you think that builds the basis for a loving marriage? For one who carries the name of Captain America, I presume you would understand the difficulty of living on a pedestal only too well.

'No, as far as I am aware, there was only ever one person she truly loved."

"What happened to Sousa?"

"He was distraught, naturally. He blamed Mr. Stark and tried to build a case against him during the inquiry," Mr. Jarvis said. "Involuntary manslaughter through negligence."

"You're kidding?" Steve burst out.

"Unfortunately not. The government, however, knew that they needed Mr. Stark _outside_ of jail so instead fined him and confiscated anything they deemed 'dangerous'. A good thing too, really, for Mr. Stark was more than willing to plead guilty to the charges and spend the rest of his life in jail."

"Why would he want to do that?"

"Guilt does terrible things to a person, Captain. Agent Sousa eventually moved on; he reconnected with a woman whom he had previously been engaged to. His and Violet's marriage was turbulent though and I don't think particularly happy."

"It can't have been easy," Steve said. "You said Agent Sousa put Peggy on a pedestal when she was alive; I can only imagine how high that pedestal rose after she died."

"Quite so but each to their own." Mr. Jarvis paused before asking, "Tell me, Captain Rogers, do you have a storage space on your motorcycle?"

"I do."

Mr. Jarvis shifted, reaching down the side of the bench to pick up a box. He'd brought it out with them earlier and, whilst curious, Steve had held his tongue. Now, it seemed as though Mr. Jarvis was ready to share its contents.

"Mr. Stark owned this until his death when I inherited it," Mr. Jarvis said. "If you would like it, then it's yours."

Steve reached across to take the box from Mr. Jarvis. Opening it, he felt the breath catch in his throat. It was a small collection, but a collection none the less, of Peggy's belongings. Photographs, mostly, but also a perfume bottle, her SSR pins, a neatly folded peignoir, a tube of lipstick that he doubted was still retailed. He picked up one photograph that said _The Three Stooges_ in a looping font he didn't recognise on the back. Turning it over, it was to see Peggy sat between a young Howard and Mr. Jarvis. What was supposed to be a nice photograph had turned into mayhem; Howard was half out of his seat, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, Peggy was throwing her head backwards and laughing heartily whilst Mr. Jarvis cowered away from what looked like a –

"Flamingo," Mr. Jarvis supplied. "One of Mr. Stark's for his collection in Los Angeles. My wife, Ana, took that photo and then laughingly wrote the comment on the back."

Steve shook his head, grinning. _Of course_ Howard would own a flamingo – and _of course _it would be part of a 'collection'. He picked up another photograph. _Camp Lehigh, 1945_ was written in Peggy's neat script. He flipped it over to find his own face in print. It was the same photograph that had been used in the documentary at the Smithsonian Institute.

"Clearly you made an impression," Mr. Jarvis quietly murmured.

At the bottom of the box was a tarnished gold necklace that he recalled seeing her once wear. Looking closely, he realised it was stamped with what he assumed was the Carter family crest. Curiosity got the better of him and he picked up the bottle of perfume, spritzing it into the still air of the early evening.

A wave of nostalgia coiled in his stomach. He was immediately transported back to a mild night in London, many years ago. The gold necklace had nestled comfortably above her cleavage, highlighted in a way that was still classy in the red dress that hugged her in all the right ways. There had been such promise in her liquid eyes. Why hadn't he insisted, there and then, that they dance?

He didn't even realise he was crying until Mr. Jarvis' hand covered his own which was tightly wrapped around the necklace. _Great, that was twice in as many months._

"Thank–" he cleared his throat and tried again "–thank you for giving this to me."

"It was always yours to have," Mr. Jarvis said softly.

They fell into a silence as the sun started to drift towards the horizon. Steve had hoped that by learning everything that had happened, some of the feelings inside him would be assuaged. Instead, they now seemed heightened; _how_ could no one have been held accountable for what had happened? _Why_ was the murder of one of the founders of S.H.I.E.L.D. (posthumously appointed, or not) still an unfinished case?

He wanted to hop on his motorcycle and ride it all the way back to Washington D.C. without stopping, march into Nick Fury's office and demand the answers to his questions. But what would that achieve? Who could he hold accountable now? The person, people, or organisation who had orchestrated this were most likely long gone – this had all happened nearly seventy years ago, after all. Who would even care nowadays?

And yet, for Steve, it was still heartbreakingly fresh and new.

He resolved himself to the following compromise: he would look for answers, keep his ear to the ground, perhaps even request a few files from S.H.I.E.L.D. He would solve this case by himself if he had to. However, he would also move on. He would force himself to go on one of the dates that Natasha kept trying to force him into. He would try new things. He wouldn't allow himself to continue wallowing in the past – his _or_ Peggy's.

Somehow, he would find a balance.

* * *

_Meanwhile, in Washington D.C.,_

"Get me off the grid!"

"_Calculating route to secure location."_

Fury tried to shake his head clear. The adrenaline was starting to seep out of his body following the attack from the supposed police. As it did so, the pain in his fractured arm increased exponentially. Through the bullet-speckled windshield, he saw a figure stood in the road directly ahead, unfazed that Fury's speeding car was heading straight towards them. Fury frowned before his confusion turned to fear.

_Oh shit_.

Fury had heard Natasha's account of the man who had shot her, all those years ago. Fully black ensemble. Shoulder-length hair. Metal arm. If Fury got close enough, he would no doubt see the red star painted on the shoulder.

The Winter Soldier raised a weapon directly at Fury and a glowing metal disk headed straight for him. Instead of breaking through the already compromised windshield, as he'd expected, the disk flew beneath the car and attached itself to the undercarriage with a metallic crunch. A moment later, Fury was facing the world at a strange angle as the disk exploded, throwing his car up and over.

The Winter Soldier deftly stepped aside as the hulking SUV crashed straight through where he had been stood a moment ago. The rasp of metal on tarmac was deafening and black smoke blinded Fury as he skidded along the street, upside down. Groaning, he unclasped his seat belt and looked through the busted driver's side window. The Winter Soldier was stalking towards him.

Desperately, Fury grabbed the Mouse Hole that he kept in the side pocket of the driver's door. He twisted the bottom and the brilliantly blue laser crackled to life. Fury plunged the laser-cutter through the roof of the ruined car as well as the concrete underneath, frantically sawing until he'd made a rectangular hole wide enough to fit through. He could hear the boots of the Winter Soldier crunching on the tarmac and broken glass as he approached.

A terrible wrenching sound filled the air as the car door was torn off. The last of Fury disappeared down the hole he'd created moments before the Winter Soldier looked into the now-abandoned vehicle. Fury splashed down into the sewers below. He ran like a wounded animal, clutching his broken arm and fleeing his attacker. Fury didn't look back and nor did he slow down. He followed the rats that fled before him, trusting in their instincts as they darted through the underground tunnel. He pushed himself further and faster, trying to put as much distance between himself and the monster that hunted him.

For the first in a long time, Fury was scared. And that, he decided, didn't bode well for anyone.

* * *

**So there we have it. As this is a tie-in AU, you will find some recognisable scenes that are taken straight from the films however I will hopefully keep them fresh for you by providing insight into the character's thoughts and feelings during the scene.**

**What are we thinking so far? Liking it? Hating it? Loving it?**


	5. A Collision of Worlds

This chapter is where the 'tie-in' aspect of the AU really comes into play. For this chapter, you will recognise scenes, action and dialogue from the movie (which I of course do not own) however I have hopefully kept it fresh enough for you with added extras and enough character inner-monologue so that it doesn't _just_ feel like a re-write.

Enjoy!

* * *

**The Broken, the Beaten and the Damned**

**Chapter 5**

Steve was bone-weary tired when he climbed the stairs of his apartment block, stifling a jaw-cracking yawn. He'd barely stopped during the four-hour drive back from New York, pushing his motorcycle to go faster so that the past couldn't quite catch him. The box of Peggy's belongings from Mr. Jarvis was tucked beneath his arm. On the drive back, it had sat in his top box, a metaphorical weight that threatened to drag him down. He'd decided that he would put it somewhere safe for now and then, when the time was right, sort through the contents. If he was really going to give himself a chance to move on, then having a box of Peggy's things wasn't going to help. He'd resolved to save a photograph or two, to remind him of the woman who he had lost and then he would donate the rest. What did he need with perfume and lipstick anyway?

He reached the floor that his apartment was on as his neighbour left. Kate, he seemed to recall. They'd conversed before, mostly pleasantries and small-talk, but she'd certainly made an impression on Steve – all golden curls and beaming smile. They said their usual hello.

Steve eyed the wash basket beneath her arm. Feeling reckless, he added, "Hey, if you want – _if _you want – you're welcome to use my machine. It might be cheaper than the one in the basement."

Kate looked pleasantly taken aback. "Oh yeah, what's it cost?"

"A cup of coffee?"

Turning bashful, she gave a polite excuse about working in the infectious disease ward and Steve wondered whether he'd read the chemistry between them wrong. Perhaps Kate really was just being neighbourly. He joked lightly, "Ah, well, I'll keep my distance."

"Well hopefully not too far," she immediately quipped back. Steve couldn't help but smile, so maybe she _had_ been flirting with him. They began to walk away from each other, her towards the basement laundry room and him towards his apartment when she spoke again. "Oh, and I think you left your stereo on."

"Oh." Now that Steve thought about it, he _could_ hear music coming from the other side of his apartment door. Music that he _knew_ he hadn't left on. "Right, thanks."

He waited until Sharon had left before darting towards the window of the hallway, his earlier exhaustion forgotten. He shoved the window up and immediately the sounds of the city washed into the building. He contemplated leaving Peggy's box in the hall but then thought better of it. Shifting the weight beneath his arm, Steve hoisted himself through the window and clung, one-handed to the gable of the apartment whilst his feet inched along the fascia of the floor below.

Reaching his kitchen window, Steve balanced on the ledge in a crouch before sliding the window upwards, noiselessly. He climbed deftly through, landing on the balls of his feet. The song came to an end and silence filled the apartment. Steve placed Peggy's box on the kitchen floor and toed it into a gap beneath the counter before padding through the dark apartment.

His shield leant against the wall of his hallway. He picked it up as the music started again and he recognised the track as _It's Been a Long, Long Time_ by Harry James and His Orchestra – one of his favourites. The brass band played boldly as Steve reached the end of the corridor, shield at the ready, and peered around the corner into his living room.

Shock made him relax his defensive posture. The record player rolled out its tune as Nick Fury lounged in Steve's leather armchair. Fury's one good eye looked at him lazily. Of all the scenarios Steve had been expecting, _this_ hadn't been one of them.

Steve felt resentful. "I don't remember giving you a key."

With a groan, Fury pulled himself into a sitting position. "You really think I'd need one?" he retorted coolly. Fury levelled Steve with his one-eyed stare. "My wife kicked me out."

"Didn't know you were married," Steve said, trying to sound bored but storing that piece of information away for later.

"There's a lot of things you don't know about me."

Steve was tired of Fury's riddles. He pushed himself away from the wall and into the room. "I know, Nick," he said, using Fury's given-name to infuriate him. "That's the problem."

He flicked the light switch and the lamp beside Fury burst to life. Turning towards his boss, Steve's look of annoyance turned to surprise: dried blood crusted Fury's right nostril and the left side of his mouth; a purple bruise bloomed beneath his working eye and he held his right arm carefully across his torso. Fury held his hand up to still Steve's questions, flicked the lamp back off and typed quickly into his phone. He turned the screen towards Steve.

EARS EVERYWHERE

Steve wondered what the hell he had missed during his trip to New York. His eyes roamed around the room, trying to see if he could spot any bugs that had been planted in his apartment. It left him feeling vulnerable and exposed.

"I'm sorry to have to do this but I had no place else to crash," Fury stated, continuing with the façade. Steve couldn't help but wonder whether the allusion to Fury's wife had also been a lie. Whilst Steve had been scanning the room, Fury must have been typing for he held up his phone for a second time.

SHIELD COMPROMISED

Steve felt a tightening in his gut. Compromised? By whom? Internal? External? A number of questions popped into his head, using the 'wife' metaphor, he asked, "Who else knows about your wife?"

Groaning again, Fury raised himself to his feet, still protectively holding his right arm across his body. In his left hand, the phone flashed another message.

YOU AND ME

"Just," Fury began, walking towards Steve on unsteady feet with a huff of pain, "my friends."

"Is that what we are?" Steve couldn't help but ask, his tone hard.

There was an understanding in Fury's eye. "That's up to you."

The still atmosphere was broken with the crack of the gunshot. Three bullets in total, shot in quick succession, exploded through the outside wall of Steve's apartment and into Fury's body. He fell to the floor with a shout of pain and rolled onto his back, coughing and moaning. Still holding his shield, Steve grabbed his unlikely ally with his other hand and dragged him away from the windows. They took refuge in the corridor that Steve had crept down barely two minutes before. His training kicked in and he scanned the room, assessing the surrounding area as he moved: the bullets had torn through brick meaning the weapon was not a standard-issue gun; they'd come through the western wall suggesting the shooter was in the building opposite; the bullets had come from an upwards trajectory so it was likely the assailant was stationed on the roof; and every bullet had hit its mark. This was no rogue agent taking pot-shots.

Steve looked out of the window and saw a glimmer of silver coming from the roof of the building opposite. He released Fury and moved past him, whether to chase down the assassin or run for help, he wasn't sure. Fury grabbed his arm with surprising strength and when he had pulled Steve back, opened his hand to show a USB stick in the middle of his open palm. Steve took it from him.

"Don't trust anyone," Fury said with difficulty.

Someone was kicking down Steve's front door. He shoved the USB stick into the pocket of his black bomber jacket. Half expecting to be caught in the cross-fire of a gunfight, Steve was surprised when the door crashed open and a familiar, feminine voice called, "Captain Rogers?"

For the second time that day, Steve found himself peering around the corner of the corridor leading into his living room. Kate was walking with purpose into his apartment, a gun held steadily in front of her. She finally saw him, and he noticed a glimmer of relief pass through her eyes before she said calmly, "Captain, I'm Agent 13. S.H.I.E.L.D. Special Service."

If she'd thought that would reassure him then she was wrong, especially after what Fury had just told him. His mind was still catching up with events and so he asked, rather belatedly, "…Kate?"

She continued to edge towards him. Impatiently, she said, "I've been assigned to protect you."

"On whose order?" he demanded.

Kate, if that was even her name, stopped when she saw Fury lying on the floor. "_His._"

She dropped to the floor and moved efficiently, checking his pulse before pulling a radio out of the front pocket of her pink scrubs. Steve's head felt sluggish as he watched all of this without moving. She raised the radio to her mouth. "Foxtrot is down; he's unresponsive. I need EMTs."

"_Do we have a 20 on the shooter?_" a male voice crackled back over the radio.

Steve looked out of the window again. The glimmer of silver from earlier moved, retreating from the roof of the building opposite. Decisively, he said, "Tell him I'm in pursuit."

Steve backed up and took a running jump. Bracing his shield in front of him, he crashed through the window of his apartment. The momentum carried him across the street and straight through the window of the building opposite. He landed on a desk in a splintering of glass and wood, cracking it cleanly in two. Rolling to his feet, he carried on running. He appeared to be in an empty office block. Hurtling through the main walkway, he passed soulless cubicles in orderly rows beneath a glass ceiling. He could see the shooter on the roof, also running away from the devastation they had caused. Steve used his shield to burst through a set of double doors, a window, and another set of double doors. He vaulted over a desk, causing a stack of colourful paper to fly in all directions and carried on running. Steve smashed into a wall as he changed direction and yet another set of double doors. He couldn't help but wonder what the company who owned the building would think in the morning. With any luck, S.H. .D. would take care of the CCTV footage for him.

No, S.H.I.E.L.D. was compromised and Fury was now fighting for his life.

That gave Steve the adrenaline push that he needed to increase his speed. He raised his shield to smash through the outside window and flew across a narrow alley, landing with another roll on the floor of the neighbouring building. The assassin barely even seemed to notice him. He continued to sprint towards the edge of the roof. Steve tried to commit what the shooter looked like to memory. The build of the person suggested that they were male. He had straggly brown hair that skimmed his shoulders. He wore all black: lace-up boots, combat trousers, leather gloves and a long-sleeved, leather tunic. One sleeve was missing, and Steve realised that the silver that had caught his attention earlier was a metal arm. A holster around his waist held a handgun and sheathed knife. The metal arm, if nothing else, was memorable and therefore, Steve hoped, easily traced. Steve raised his shield to throw at the assailant's retreating back when his feet were swept out from under him.

A second assailant had appeared from nowhere.

Steve scrambled to his feet. The other assailant was decidedly female. Long, dark hair rippled in the January wind. She was crouched low, a lethal looking knife held in a reverse grip with the blade pointing outwards. The male assassin, Steve now noticed, had stopped running and seemed to be watching them with the air of someone who was about to enjoy a particularly thrilling show. The female assailant was dressed the same as her male counterpart – black boots, combat trousers and leather tunic with a holstered array of weapons. Unlike the male assassin, however, she appeared to have all limbs intact. She also didn't appear to be wearing gloves; long, pale fingers were exposed to the winter chill. Steve could now see that both assailants wore black respirators that obscured the bottom half of their faces.

Steve looked into her eyes and only saw intense hate. She attacked, leaping through the air at him. He raised his shield but she ducked beneath it. In retaliation, she slashed at him viciously and Steve jerked backwards, barely missing the blade. He attempted a flurry of punches but she dodged them all, her body moving fluidly as though she could pre-empt all of his moves. She thrust the knife upwards and it would have pierced his larynx if he hadn't brought his shield up and over, smashing down on her wrist with a crushing blow. The knife dropped from her suddenly nerveless fingers, skittering away across the floor. Seizing his opportunity, Steve attempted a jab which she jerked back from. She threw out her own punch which he blocked as something triumphant danced behind her eyes. Her other hand came up but instead of attempting another punch, as Steve had been anticipating, her shockingly icy fingertips grasped his exposed wrist.

Currents of what looked like black ink swirled beneath the surface of his skin from where she made contact. He looked up, ready to ask what the hell she was doing but she, and Washington D.C., had disappeared.

Steve found himself in a dimly lit, crowded dance hall. Champagne popped. Couples laughed and danced. A camera flashed, blinding him. He looked down at himself and saw that his shield and modern clothing had disappeared, replaced with his dress uniform from the 1940s. A lively jazz band played, the upbeat music accented with the sounds of explosions and gunfire. Dazed and confused, Steve wandered through this perversion of normality. Two soldiers shoved each other, faces contorted in rage. A nearby table laughed as one soldier mopped the shirt of another, red wine blooming across his chest.

He stood, lost, at the edge of the dancefloor. Women were thrown into the air by their partners. A light hand ghosted down his forearm. "Are you ready for our dance?"

Startled, he turned to find Peggy stood behind him, her face expectant and wanting. He felt slow and foolish, unable to form a single coherent word for her.

Her hair was curled in an elaborate updo, her make-up bolder than he'd ever seen it and she wore a flattering blue dress with a pink flower arrangement attached to the collar. _Yes,_ he thought vaguely, _that was right. He'd pinned the corsage to her dress when he'd picked her up. 8 o'clock on the dot. He hadn't dared be late. _The chandelier hung from behind, casting her in its golden glow. _Date. They were finally on their long-overdue date._

"The war's over, Steve. We can go home," she told him. "Imagine it."

He didn't have to try hard; it was the same image he'd had in mind for years. A white picket-fence house, the laughter of children; Peggy, warm and supple in his arms. How many years exactly had this been his dream? Too many and yet too few.

She grasped his hand. Just like their first kiss, _their only kiss_, she took the lead now too. Her red-lipped smile cracked open, flashing white teeth as she spun towards him and curled into his body. His hand came up automatically, a flat palm pressing into the small of her back. Her hand rested on the shoulder that she looked over, ready to step-dig until he was more comfortable to learn the basic steps. Steve only had eyes for her. His mouth parted as he drank in the feel of her in his arms. He pulled her closer than was probably deemed appropriate. The length of his body pressed against hers. She was wearing the perfume Mr. Jarvis had given to him.

And then his arms were empty. The dance hall was empty. _He _was empty. A ringing filled his ears, his head, his entire being. He turned. Peggy was in the centre of the empty dance floor but everything about her was _wrong_. She was wearing a simpler green dress, the folds of fabric creased with soot. Her hair fell loose around her shoulders. A fine layer of dust coated her skin. Blood ran down the side of her face and neckline. She didn't seem to see Steve. Her eyes filled with tears and her chin trembled.

"I've never been on this side of the radio before."

Her hair swept violently forwards. She closed her eyes as a single tear rolled down one cheek. He took a faltering step towards her as the explosion tore through the dance hall. Rock and rubble, fire and smoke, heaven and hell claimed her.

With a gasp, Steve was brought back to the present. He was back on a rooftop with the assassins in Washington D.C., the chill January wind passing through him. To his surprise, the female assailant was looking at him with wide, terrified eyes. Something about her expression told him she'd seen everything that he had.

"What did you do?" he managed to choke out.

She gave him one final, long look before turning and running. Steve lifted his shield and threw it at her retreating back but, perhaps because he was still reeling from his vision, the shield sailed over her shoulder. With a resounding clang, the male assassin caught the shield easily in his metal arm as though it was nothing more than a mild inconvenience. He hurled it back towards Steve as the female assailant reached her counterpart. Steve caught the shield in his chest and skidded backwards through the gravel.

When he'd recovered his balance, the roof was empty except for himself. He ran to the edge and looked over the city streets. Both assailants were gone: the man with the metal arm and the woman with the nightmare-inducing hands.

* * *

**Music recommendation:**

From: 'Currents of what looked like…' (P46) to the end of the chapter: _Daniel's 9__th__ Cipher_ by Hans Zimmer and Richard Harvey from The Da Vinci Code (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack).


	6. The Drawing of Battle Lines

**The Broken, the Beaten and the Damned  
Chapter 6**

It had only taken a flash of his S.H.I.E.L.D. badge and a murderous glance from Maria Hill, whom he'd met in the lobby of the hospital, for them be given access to the private gallery that looked into the operating room. A grim-faced Sitwell and Rumlow were already inside. The rest of Rumlow's S.T.R.I.K.E. team were pacing the corridors outside which were abuzz with talk and activity. It was quiet and still, however, within the gallery. Maria stood to the left of Steve, half-bathed in shadow as they watched the doctor's fight to save Fury's life.

"What brings you to D.C., Agent?" Rumlow asked quietly, breaking the silence.

"Fury called me this afternoon," Maria replied. "He said he wanted help on a case – fresh perspective, y'know? I didn't expect to find him like this."

A small frown creased Steve's brow. Her tone was too casual, her response too readily prepared. She was lying. He leaned against the windowsill, his eyes sliding to her face which betrayed nothing but concern for her boss. Right now, there were two facts revolving around Steve's mind: S.H.I.E.L.D. was compromised and Fury had told him to trust no one. That meant that everyone in this room except for himself was a suspect until proven otherwise.

Steve glanced back at Sitwell and Rumlow. The former was stood with his arms behind his back, mouth pursed as he stared at Fury. Rumlow, on the other hand, was surreptitiously checking his watch for what seemed like the fourth time.

"You got somewhere you need to be?" Steve asked. His tone was conversational and light, but suspicion raced through his veins.

Rumlow shook his head, lowering his arm to his side. "I was meant to be seeing my girl tonight," he admitted, "She's been away so I haven't seen her for a while." He gave a one-armed shrug, looking past Steve and into the operating room. "But there are more important places to be. Pierce has tasked me with catching the son-of-a-bitch who did this."

The door burst open as Natasha arrived. She fell in beside Steve, her sneakers squeaking on the floor as she came to a sudden halt. She didn't speak, her eyes instantly fixating on the image in front of them. Through the glass, Fury lay on his back with tubes jammed down his throat and his small intestine exposed. The doctors worked carefully and efficiently, trying to repair the internal damage that the assassin had caused. Steve had never seen the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. look so vulnerable.

"Is he gonna make it?" Natasha finally asked, her tone hollow.

"I don't know," Steve admitted.

"Tell me about the shooter."

"He's fast. Strong. Had a metal arm," Steve listed off. He thought he felt Natasha shift beside him but when he looked, she was still staring resolutely at Fury. What was going on behind her carefully blank face? Fear? Remorse? Or victory? Keeping an eye on her, to watch her reaction, Steve added, "He wasn't alone."

"What do you mean?" Maria asked.

"There was another assailant. Female. She wasn't at the shooting; I don't think. She ambushed me when I was chasing down our guy," Steve told them. "She was quick and had clearly been trained in combat."

He contemplated telling them more, about the way she had touched him and the nightmare it had evoked but refrained. Fury's warning was still rattling between his ears and, as Steve learned whilst playing Poker with the Howling Commandos during the war, it was always smart to hold your cards close to your chest.

"Ballistics?" Natasha asked pressingly.

"Three slugs, no casing," Maria stated. "Completely untraceable."

"Soviet-made," Natasha said, a little too knowingly.

"Yeah."

Their conversation was cut short when the activity in the operating room suddenly increased. The medical personal moved with a more frantic urgency. The words they called to each may have been medical jargon, but Steve had caught up on enough modern films to know that this was what doctors said to each other when things were going wrong. Through the reinforced glass, the assembled agents could only watch as Fury's body convulsed under the strain of the defibrillator.

"Don't do this to me, Nick. Don't do this."

Listening to Natasha plead was almost worse than watching Fury give up. Steve was the first to walk away, followed by Maria. Natasha stayed, seemingly unable to step away from her vigil over Fury even after the doctors pronounced him dead. Steve's hands were trembling. He shoved them into the pockets of his bomber jacket however the fingers of his right hand brushed against something small and rectangular. He pulled out the USB stick that Fury had given him – it looked suspiciously similar to the one Natasha had used to retrieve information from the _Lemurian Star_ during their supposed mission to rescue the hostages.

Surreptitiously, Steve stuffed it back into his pocket. He left the gallery with Maria behind him and re-entered the bustle of the hospital corridor. Rollins broke away from the S.T.R.I.K.E. team.

"Cap?"

Steve shook his head mutely. The S.T.R.I.K.E. team sagged with disappointment, all falling silent at the news. The door to the gallery opened again. Sitwell and Rumlow walked out with Natasha sandwiched between them. She was dry-eyed but there was a fierce determination blazing across her face.

"They're preparing the body," Rumlow murmured.

Sitwell dragged a hand over his tired face. "I should get back to headquarters," he said. "Update them on the situation. They'll want to know about…" he trailed off, glancing back in the direction of the O.R. He turned to Rumlow. "Keep me posted."

"Yes, sir." Clapping a hand on Sitwell's shoulder, he offered, "Let me walk you out."

The two men made their way down the corridor, passing the subdued S.T.R.I.K.E. team. Steve, Natasha and Maria loitered in the hall; none of them were willing to suggest also leaving. Steve stifled a yawn, his eyes watering from the effort; the exhaustion that had been kept at bay through adrenaline and fear was now catching back up with him. He wasn't surprised that his body was starting to protest. In the last twenty-four hours he'd driven to Long Island and back; listened to Mr. Jarvis' recollection of how Peggy had been killed; chased an assailant through – _literally_ through – a building; been trapped in a surreal dream sequence where he watched Peggy be destroyed and now witnessed the real-life nightmare of Fury dying. He pushed his exhaustion aside however; now was not the time to give in to tiredness. He'd learnt during the way that the super soldier serum allowed him to run on fumes for days but when he did finally crash, he crashed _hard_.

* * *

Fury's body was moved to a private room before they were allowed to see him. He laid stiffly on a hospital gurney; a white sheet pulled up to his chest. The stark hospital lights threw the injuries to his face into sharp relief; purple bruises standing out vividly. Steve stood by the door, giving Natasha a semblance of privacy as she resumed her vigil by his side. The silence between them was deafening.

Maria entered the room, standing by Steve's side. "I need to take him."

Steve glanced between her and Natasha. Maria looked down, gulping hard, and he saw that tears were starting to sparkle on her lashes. He wouldn't argue with her on this. He stepped up behind the former Russian assassin.

"Natasha…"

The red-head didn't respond to him. Instead, she reached out and pressed her hand to the top of Fury's head briefly before turning and stalking out of the room. Steve followed her into the corridor, calling her name again.

She whirled around to face him with hard eyes. "Why was Fury in your apartment?"

He shrugged and sighed. "I don't know."

"Cap," Steve turned to see that Rumlow was walking towards him, looking intense. "They want you back at S.H.I.E.L.D."

"Yeah, give me a second."

As Steve turned back to Natasha, Rumlow cut in again, his tone uncompromising, "They want you now."

Steve felt his spine stiffen. "Okay."

As Rumlow walked away, Steve turned back to Natasha once more. She gave him an arrogant jerk of the head. "You're a terrible liar."

She walked away, leaving Steve alone in the middle of the corridor. Through his enhanced hearing, he heard the order from the S.T.R.I.K.E. team's earpieces that he was to be escorted back to S.H.I.E.L.D. for questioning. An ominous foreboding settled over Steve as he watched Natasha until she turned a corner of the hospital. She may have been a pain in the ass but being left without her to face S.H.I.E.L.D. made him feel incredibly alone.

Turning, he noticed that a janitor was refilling the snacks in the vending machine. Without pausing to think, Steve snagged around the janitor as he opened up a box of chips and slotted Fury's USB stick into a space behind a pack of Hubba Bubba. It was a risk, Steve knew, but it was less dangerous than walking into a S.H.I.E.L.D. interrogation with the damned thing in his pocket.

* * *

"Captain, somebody murdered my friend – I'm going to find out why. Anyone gets in my way; they're going to regret it. Anyone."

Undersecretary Alexander Pierce's final warning still echoed in Steve's mind as he waited for the elevator within S.H.I.E.L.D.'s Washington D.C. headquarters. Their conversation, which had started pleasant enough had soon turned sinister. Or, Steve reasoned with himself, perhaps it hadn't turned at all, but Fury's final words were making him see everything (and everyone) in a different light. He wanted to believe that Pierce was mourning his friend and determined to see justice prevail, but a gut-feeling told the super soldier that something wasn't altogether right. Or, he reasoned again, what if Fury's last warning was clouding his judgement – causing him to see enemies in friends?

The glass elevator arrived and swished open. Steve stepped inside and told the elevator's A.I. which floor he required, still caught up in his thoughts as he looked blindly out on the Potomac River. It was now mid-morning and wintry sunshine sparkled off of the water below. Steve vaguely registered the arrival of more people in the elevator. He would return to the hospital, he decided, and retrieve the USB stick from the vending machine. If the information on it had been worth dying for, then accessing the flash drive was the first logical step in Steve's investigation.

"Cap."

Steve spun around. The leader of the S.T.R.I.K.E. team had entered the elevator with two of his team members. "Rumlow," Steve acknowledged. The elevator doors slid shut and they began their descent downwards before Steve ventured to ask, "Did you managed to spend any time with your girl?"

Rumlow gave him a cutting smile. "Yeah, a couple hours."

"Was she annoyed that you'd kept her waiting?"

"Not by the end," Rumlow replied, with a suggestive smirk.

Steve had never mastered the skill of 'locker-room talk' so he didn't ask for details. Instead – perhaps because the nightmare from the previous night was still playing on his mind – he said, "You should take her dancing."

Rumlow's smirk had vanished and there was something calculating in his eyes. "She isn't into all that. Maybe when she was younger but not anymore."

There was a pause before Rumlow changed the subject, saying briskly, "Evidence response found traces of fibres on the roof they want us to see – you want me to get TAC-team ready?"

"No, let's wait and see what it is first," Steve advised.

"Right."

Rumlow turned away, shifting to one side and Steve noticed that the other guy on his team was fiddling with the handgun in his thigh holster. Frowning, Steve looked at the rest of his body language and noticed that he seemed to be looking out of the window a little _too _casually. Before he could take in anymore details, the elevator stopped, and the doors opened to allow four more agents inside. The first two were suited and carrying briefcases, absorbed in their own conversation whilst the two behind them were other members of Rumlow's team. Steve stepped forwards to create space as the new people in the elevator found a place to plant themselves. They descended once more.

"I'm sorry about what happened with Fury," Rumlow said, over his shoulder to Steve. "Messed up what happened to him."

"Thank you."

Steve glanced over his shoulder at one of the suited agents. Even as he continued his conversation, a rivulet of sweat slid down the side of the agent's face. The hair on the back of Steve's neck prickled uncomfortably. Once again, the elevator stopped, and the doors opened. Rollins; flanked by two more members of the S.T.R.I.K.E. team. Steve couldn't say he was surprised. Rollins entered the elevator and turned around, standing directly in front of Steve whilst his two friends weaved their way through to the back of the elevator. Steve could almost have laughed at the lack of subtlety. _Almost_.

The doors slid shut and Steve shifted into a more comfortable stance. "Before we get started, does anybody want to leave?"

Rollins extended an electroshock blade and spun around to zap Steve with it. Throwing a punch, the super soldier deflected the weapon and sent it skittering to the floor before the other members of the elevator pounced on him. Someone punched the emergency stop button and the elevator ground to a halt. Steve's arms were pulled in either direction, his shield was ripped from his back and the largest S.T.R.I.K.E. agent wrapped an arm around his neck in a tight chokehold.

The electroshock blade was retrieved, and he was hit across the chest with it. Currents of electricity raced across his skin from the point of contact, stealing his breath. As Steve struggled, the two agents in suits dropped the handles out from their briefcases and tried to attach them to his wrists. The magnetised hand cuffs immediately started to drag his arms towards the metal bar in the elevator. _Now that_, Steve would have to admit, even as he struggled against them, _was clever_.

Steve groaned, trying to pull his arm away from the metal bar even as a S.T.R.I.K.E agent tried to force it upwards. With a great effort, Steve dragged his arm away from the bar and stamped his leg down in a punishing blow to the agent's knee. He immediately dropped to the floor and Steve used his now-free hand to punch another S.T.R.I.K.E. agent in the gut. Using the elbow of his left arm, he smashed it into the nose of one of the suited agents. The magnetised handcuff that hadn't quite managed to close, flew off his arm and attached itself to the wall. An advancing agent suffered from a severe kick to the chest, throwing him backwards. Steve jabbed Rollins in the throat. He backhanded another agent. His head slammed backwards into the agent who held him in a chokehold before also throwing him to the floor.

Rumlow kicked his hand upwards and the magnetism dragged Steve's wrist towards the metal bar, trapping him. Steve tried and failed to pull it free before the whirr of the electroshock blade caught his attention. Rumlow viciously swiped at his head but Steve deflected it with a block, throwing Rumlow off-balance. Instead of deterring him, Rumlow used the momentum to swing back, bringing a two-handed strike down on the back of Steve's shoulder. Even as Steve shouted in pain, Rumlow kept the blade pressed down hard.

Rallying against the pain, Steve brought his arm up to smash his elbow into Rumlow's temple and sent him sprawling into the wall. Steve grabbed an agent and threw him upwards with a satisfying crash. The agent scrambled back to his feet, snatching up the electroshock blade as he did so and aiming it at Steve. The super soldier grabbed the agent's wrist and forced the blade into the chest of another agent. Clinging to the arm pinned above his head, Steve hoisted himself upwards and scissor-kicked his legs outwards, simultaneously kicking both agents in the jaw and chest to immobilise them.

Steve jumped upwards, bracing his booted feet against the glass wall of the elevator and used his weight to force his trapped arm away from the wall. Somersaulting backwards, he landed on his feet and swiftly took out two agents until only himself and Rumlow were standing.

Rumlow held an electroshock blade in each hand. Steve was breathing hard as he glared down at him.

"Woah, big guy," Rumlow soothed, hands held out as though to calm him. Steve thought it would have been more convincing if he wasn't holding onto two weapons. "I just want you to know, Cap, this ain't PERSONAL!"

Rumlow dropped the pretence, attacking Steve with both weapons. Steve blocked but Rumlow managed to hit him twice with the blades, straight in the stomach. The electric currents caused Steve's heart to hammer and his lungs to contract. Bringing his arm up, Steve punched Rumlow across the jaw before lifting him and throwing him bodily into the roof of the elevator. He stepped backwards as Rumlow dropped to the floor. The electroshock blades crackled to an end as Steve looked down on Rumlow's prone form, regaining his breath.

"I kinda feels personal."

Anger pulsed through his veins as he retrieved his shield and used the vibranium edge to cut through the magnetised handcuff still attached to his right wrist. If he was honest with himself, he was proud of the bodies that now littered the floor of the elevator. He hoped it sent out a distinct message to the people who had killed Fury. Captain America would not be cowed, and he would not stop until justice prevailed.


	7. Discovering the Truth

This chapter takes place after Natasha and Steve's conversation about the Winter Soldier in the hospital as well as the mall scene in CA:TWS. Everything that happened in those scenes has happened and, as they say, if it ain't broke…

* * *

**The Broken, the Beaten and the Damned**

**Chapter 7**

For the second time in two days, Steve was driving to the East Coast. The too-big shoes that Natasha had snagged for him from the hospital lost and found slid as he pumped the gas pedal. Out on the open roads, he pushed the speed limit to the amusement of Natasha. Out of the corner of his eye, he often caught her smirking at him but – for once – she didn't comment. Most of the ride was quiet and Steve was grateful for that. Only yesterday he had told himself that he wouldn't wallow in the past and yet here he was driving straight back into it.

Despite the silence, Steve had felt Natasha's penetrative gaze on his face for the last couple of minutes. Sighing, he slid his eyes to her. "What?"

"Where did Captain America learn how to steal a car?" she asked without preamble.

He shifted uncomfortably. "Nazi Germany. And we're borrowing; take your feet off the dash."

The corner of her mouth quirked upwards as she brought her feet slowly down. She was still looking at him, so he decided to fill the silence. "You said this guy, the 'winter soldier' shot you," he said, "What about the girl?"

Natasha gave a one-armed shrug. "I don't know her. She wasn't there," she told him. "I came across her in my research though; she's like him – comes and goes throughout history. They usually work together. There's even less information around about her than there is of him."

"I wonder why she wasn't there when you were attacked," Steve mused.

"Maybe she was on vacation," Natasha quipped lightly. She then added, "They call her Melinoë, but I doubt that's her real name."

"Melinoë," Steve repeated, his lips twisting around the unfamiliar word.

"It's from the lesser-known Greek mythology," Natasha told him. "The Goddess of Nightmares and Madness."

Steve gave a small start; one that he knew Natasha had noticed. She was looking at him through narrowed eyes whilst he carefully kept his own eyes trained on the road. She didn't say anything, instead reclining back in her seat and scrolling through her phone, but Steve knew better than to relax. Natasha was smart; she wouldn't mention anything now when he was prepared and on the defensive – no, she would bide her time and bring it up when he was caught off-guard and therefore more likely to talk.

"You sure you should be on that thing?" Steve asked, looking pointedly at her phone with distrust. "Can't they track the radio transmission, or something?"

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Relax, Grandpa. I asked Tony to make some adjustments below the radar so that it's perfectly safe to use. If anyone tries tracking the phone, then the signal will be bounced around the globe whilst a particularly nasty virus takes hold of their device."

"So what's to stop us from getting this virus?" Steve asked, his voice pitching just a little bit higher than usual. At Natasha's full-blown smirk, he blushed, suddenly feeling foolish. "Different kind've virus, huh?"

"Got it in one."

There was almost a full two minutes of silence before Natasha was questioning him again, this time about his kissing history. Soon they were bickering about his abilities and relationship status. As was becoming surprisingly normal for them, their jest soon gave way to a real conversation with Steve admitting his insecurity in being able to trust her. For all of Natasha's big talk, Steve was starting to learn that there was more to the former Soviet spy than just aloof indifference – which, he had realised, was a façade to disguise how much she truly did care for people. Clearly, she'd cared for Fury and that was now fuelling her desire to work with Steve against the agency who had given her a second chance at living a decent life.

Night was rapidly approaching when they finally arrived at Camp Lehigh. Natasha was checking the coordinates on her phone as though she didn't quite trust in Steve's navigational abilities. They climbed out of the car and headed towards the rusted fence.

During the 1940s, Camp Lehigh had been bustling with activity and new recruits as they were trained for the battlefield with tests in endurance, logic and even literacy with the Army General Classification Test. Nowadays, the camp was abandoned and desolate with rundown buildings and overgrown grass. Armed with his shield, Steve led Natasha through a gap in the chain-link fence. Using her enhanced cell phone, Natasha scanned for heat signatures, wavelengths and the origin of where the information on the USB stick had come from.

Steve, on the other hand, allowed himself to indulge in the memories of his time here. Despite what many people had thought, Steve hadn't been delusional. He'd known he was a scrawny liability with a seemingly never-ending list of medical conditions, but he had also been determined and stubborn with a healthy thirst to prove himself. He hadn't thought he was the best soldier (in fact, he knew he wasn't) or better than anyone else around him (except, perhaps, Hodge who'd been a real jackass) but, as it turns out, he hadn't needed to be a perfect soldier – just a good man. Even now, over seventy years later, he strived to live up to what Dr. Erskine had seen in him before anyone else. His time here had been challenging, both physically and mentally, and yet the results had been far more rewarding than he ever could have imagined.

The fond, nostalgic smile slipped from his face. Even as Natasha told him that Camp Lehigh was a dead-end, he eyed the ammunitions bunker set on the edge of the parade ground suspiciously.

"What is it?" she asked, noticing the change in his facial expression.

He led her towards the seemingly innocuous bunker. "Army regulations forbid storing munitions within five hundred yards of the barracks," he told her. "This building is in the wrong place."

Steve used his shield to break open the padlock on the door to the bunker. It creaked on its rusted hinges and swung outwards. A set of stairs descended into darkness. Natasha's eyebrows flicked upwards.

"Well this is exciting."

He led the way downstairs with Natasha following, the light from the moon filtering through the door above and casting gloomy shadows. The room was musty; the air still with disuse. Natasha flicked the light switch and bulbs blinked to life in stages, revealing the abandoned office to them. Empty desks and spinning chairs filled the room. An outdated logo for S.H.I.E.L.D. was painted on the far wall.

"This is S.H.I.E.L.D.," Natasha said unnecessarily.

"This is where it started," Steve said, recalling what Mr. Jarvis had told him. He must've been losing his touch, to not make the connection. Or, his brain was simply so overloaded with information from the last few days and so sleep deprived that it was slowing him down.

Steve opened a door and they found themselves in what appeared to be a records room. Most of the bookshelves were empty and he had to assume that what was left was of no use to anyone. Every surface carried an inch-thick layer of dust on it. Steve stopped at a wall bearing three of the photographs that he had seen at the Smithsonian Institute. Colonel Phillips, Howard at a crooked angle and Peggy wearing her not-quite smile. He was relieved to see that the painting Mr. Jarvis had described was nowhere to be seen.

"Hm, there's Stark's father," Natasha said, nodding towards the central photo.

"Howard," Steve supplemented, habitually. He wasn't looking at Howard's photo, though. His gaze was transfixed on Peggy, eyeing her hungrily. The photograph didn't nearly capture the vibrancy of the person she had been.

Natasha must have noticed him staring for she followed his gaze and asked, "Who's the girl?"

No. He wouldn't share Peggy with her. Not with this woman with her half-smirk who was incapable of taking anything seriously. She didn't deserve to know who 'the girl' was. Steve tore his eyes away from Peggy's portrait and walked away, expecting Natasha to follow. After a moment she did and was blessedly silent.

The groan of wind caught his attention as he walked towards the cobwebby bookshelves, feeling the air that was passing through the miniscule gaps. "If you're already working in a secret office…" He grabbed the bookshelf and pulled it towards him. It slid open to reveal a vestibule behind. "…why do you need to hide the elevator?"

Interest piqued, Natasha used her cell phone to scan the elevators keypad for fingerprints. The cell phone arranged the buttons pressed into the correct order to work the elevator and she punched in the code. The elevator doors opened with a cheerful ding. Stepping inside, it took them downwards and Steve could feel the air getting colder as they plunged deeper into the earth.

They finally came to a stop and the doors slid open to reveal another secret room. This one was darker and eerier than the first. They walked forwards and overhead lights clicked on, as though something or someone was expecting them. Steve shifted the weight of his shield into a more comfortable position, cradling it against him defensively. The final lights to click on showed an aged supercomputer with seven monitors of varying sizes, a keyboard mounted into the desk and two boxy cameras.

"This can't be the datapoint," Natasha said, stepping up to where the supercomputer stood. "This technology's ancient."

A surprisingly modern USB port lay on the surface of the desk. Natasha held their own flash drive up contemplatively before finally inserting it into one of the free portals. Immediately, the recording tapes around the room whirred to life and the squares of lights on the mainframe flicked on. Suddenly, the room was awash with the sounds of technology from a bygone era. Unnervingly of all was the camera which suddenly rose up to greet them.

An electronic voice broke through their sudden silence.

_Initiate system?_

Natasha interacted with the computer, typing on the keyboard. "Y-e-s, spells yes. Shall we play a game? It's from a movie that was really pop–"

"I know, I saw it," he cut over her. Steve's love for movies had remained with him for the last seventy years and he'd had a _lot_ of catching up to do. He'd watched _WarGames_ during a back-to-back marathon of 80s cult classics.

The computer's central monitor sprung to life, green code and black background emerging and shifting to create an unnerving face.

"_Rogers, Steven. Born 1918._" A heavily-accented, distorted voice spoke. The camera swung from Steve's face to Natasha's. "_Romanoff, Natalia Alianovna. Born 1984_."

Natasha frowned at the screen. "Some kind of recording…"

"_I am not a recording, _fraulein," the green face stated petulantly. "_I may not be the man I was when the Captain took me prisoner in 1945 but I __**am**__._"

The weak and sullen face of Dr. Arnim Zola as he appeared in life was shown on a monitor to the right. Natasha looked between the monitor and Steve in disgust. "You know this thing?"

Steve started to walk around the back of the supercomputer, inspecting the device as he spoke. "Arnim Zola was a German scientist who worked for the Red Skull. He's been dead for years," Steve told her.

"_First correction: I am Swiss,_" the tinny voice corrected. Steve continued to circle the computer. "_Second: Look around you. I have never been more alive. In 1972 I received a terminal diagnosis. Science could not save my body. My mind, however; that was worth saving, on two hundred thousand feet of data banks. You are standing in my brain_."

Steve had returned to standing beside Natasha in front of the central monitor. Somehow, he found Zola even more repulsive in death than he had been in life. "How did you get here?" he asked the computer.

"_Invited._"

"It was Operation Paperclip after World War Two," Natasha recalled. "S.H.I.E.L.D. recruited German scientists with strategic value."

Steve recalled reading about it during his extensive research. America had just ended one war and were on the brink of another with the Soviet Union – both in terms of the Cold War and the Space Race. They had seemed to think it prudent to hire thousands of German scientists, engineers and technicians so that they could be employed to work against the Russians. Most of them were given the choice between quasi-freedom where they lived comfortably in America and worked with their skills, or a life sentence in prison. Steve couldn't altogether say that he'd been pleased with this outcome – even less so now that he learnt Bucky's torturer had been allowed freedom, immunity and exoneration for his crimes.

"_They thought I could help their cause. I also helped my own_," the computer said gleefully.

"HYDRA died with the Red Skull."

"_Cut off one head; two more shall take its place._" The face of Arnim Zola split into two, their green lines pulsating sinisterly.

"Prove it," Steve challenged. He would not, _could not_, take this ridiculous version of a man's word at face value. The other monitors clicked to life before Steve had even finished speaking. It appeared Zola had been anticipating this moment and now delivered his fatal news with relish.

"_Accessing archive._"

Steve looked into the face of his enemy from nearly seventy years ago as Zola spoke. The once-handsome face of Johann Schmidt was superimposed upon the Nazi flag. This was replaced with troops, wearing all-black and saluting with two outstretched arms that ended in fists. The collective shout of 'Heil HYDRA' bursting from their lips. The clip changed again to show archive-footage of Allied forces during the Normandy landings.

"_HYDRA was founded on the belief that humanity could not be trusted with its own freedom. What we did not realised was that if you try to take that freedom, they resist._" More footage – this time of Steve fighting HYDRA soldiers in his Captain America battle uniform. A sharp pass through a collection of footage from the Second World War, including opposing political leaders, Hitler and Churchill. "_The war taught us much. Humanity needed to surrender its freedom willingly. After the war, S.H.I.E.L.D. was founded and I was recruited. The new HYDRA grew._"

A newspaper article headed **GERMAN SCIENTISTS RECRUITED BY U.S.** showed a group photograph of the men involved in Operation Paperclip. Zola stood, half-hidden amongst the crowd of scientists. Steve could feel Natasha drawing closer; the horror, disgust and anger that he felt seemed to be roiling off of her in waves.

"_A beautiful parasite inside S.H.I.E.L.D.,_" Zola continued. "_For seventy years, HYDRA has been secretly feeding crisis, reaping war, and when history did not cooperate, history was changed._"

A montage of global catastrophe's filled the screen: rioting protestors, nuclear bombs, stock market crashes, political tensions, assassinations and then… a metal arm and masked face, crouched with an assault rifle; a woman in a headscarf and sunglasses hidden amongst a crowd.

"That's impossible. S.H.I.E.L.D. would have stopped you," Natasha protested weakly.

"_Accidents will happen_."

**Howard and Maria Stark Die in Car Accident** blazed across the screen.

Fury's S.H. .D. file and photographs with **DECEASED** stamped across it.

**ONE DEAD and MANY INJURED at Stark Expo**

And, through the speakers:

"_Peggy…_"

"_This isn't your fault, Howard. I want you to know that. This. Isn't. Your. Fault._"

"_Please don't do this_."

The hand not holding the shield curled into a clenched first. Steve turned blazing eyes on the grinning face of Zola. "It was you?" he asked, tightly. "You did that?"

"_HYDRA created a world so chaotic that humanity is finally ready to sacrifice its freedom to gain its security. Once a purification process is complete, HYDRA's new world order will arise. We won, Captain._" Images of the helicarriers authorised by Fury filled the screen, their guns turning to train on a target. "_Your death amounts to the same as your life. A zero sum._"

A rage that Steve had rarely felt before burned through his belly. He raised his fist and smashed it straight through the central monitor, crushing the glass and destroying Zola's smug face. _Or so he thought_. Another monitor immediately picked up from where the last one had left off, as though Steve's action had been nothing but a mild inconvenience. "_As I was saying…_" Zola said pointedly.

"What's on this drive?" Steve cut over him. He'd had enough of indulging Zola in his little theatrical show.

"_Project Insight requires insight,_" Zola said, enjoying his play on words. "_So I wrote an algorithm._"

"What kind've algorithm? What does it do?" Natasha demanded.

"_The answer to your question is fascinating. Unfortunately, you shall be too dead to hear it._"

The doors to the elevator – and only exit from Zola's sadistic lair – slid shut. Steve turned and threw his shield at the rapidly closing metal however it was too late. His shield rebounded off of the now-sealed doors and returned to Steve's hand as Natasha's cell phone gave an incessant series of beeps. She glanced at it.

"Steve, we got a bogey," she said, watching the trajectory on her phone. "Short range ballistics. Thirty seconds, tops."

Steve frowned at her. "Who fired it?"

"S.H.I.E.L.D."

"_I am afraid I have been stalling, Captain_," Zola's consciousness informed them gleefully. Natasha snatched the USB stick out of the portal. "_Admit it. It's better this way. We are, both of us, out of time_."

Steve ran to the floor grate and yanked it open, throwing the metal out of the way. Natasha ran to him and he forced her down into the gap as the S.H.I.E.L.D. missile hit the bunker. Landing beside her, he held her tightly in one arm whilst his other arm used the shield to brace them against the fire, rock and rubble that raged above.

The dark was crushing, the dust suffocating and the heat unbearable. _Was this what it had been like when…?_ No! He couldn't go back; he couldn't change what had happened in 1947. In the here and now, however, he could possibly save both himself and Natasha. Using his enhanced strength, Steve pushed against the rock that entombed them both. He strained and sweated and groaned but eventually was able to push away what had once been the roof of the building. The fire flickered and cast long shadows but it was better than the darkness from before. Natasha was unconscious. Steve hoisted her into his arms and started to climb out from the remains of the first S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters.

He'd managed to move them into a clearing where the was just a little fresher when the sound of helicarriers engines broke overhead.

Three in total. Their floodlights swept over the ground, searching for them. Steve ran with Natasha in his arms, knowing that he was moving on borrowed time. Sooner or later, a team of agents – or, if he was really unlucky the Winter Soldier and Melinoë – would be scouring the area, looking for either bodies or prey. Steve was finding that he'd been correct in the mall when he'd told Natasha that these too-big shoes weren't made for running, but sheer willpower kept him moving. He shifted the unconscious agent higher into his arms, ducked his head lower and darted between piles of rubble to avoid the cold white lights of the helicarriers. Over the sounds of the blazing fires, he strained his enhanced hearing to listen for the footfalls of those that hunted them.

* * *

If they had wanted to, the two assassins could have soundlessly ended Pierce's life before he even knew they were in the room – and all three of them knew it. It was for this reason that Pierce didn't outwardly react, despite the jump in his heart rate, when he turned in his shadowy kitchen to find them both casually waiting for him. Fear was weakness and these two didn't follow weakness.

The Winter Soldier – the first of his kind and therefore the one whose name stuck – sat at Pierce's dining table. His fleshy arm rested against his hip whilst the metal arm lay on the surface, his fingers a hairsbreadth away from the handgun. Melinoë, as she had been dubbed, leant against the wall. One boot was propped against the glass as she toyed with a lethal-looking dagger – Piece hoped she didn't leave a mark that he would have to explain to Renata.

As though on cue, his housemaid called to him from the adjacent corridor. "I'm going to go, Mr. Pierce. You need anything before I leave?"

"No… er, it's fine, Renata; you can go home."

"Okay, night, night."

"Goodnight," he returned brusquely. The two assassins eyed him silently and Pierce waited until he heard the front door close behind Renata before asking, as though an indulgent father, "Want some milk?"

Neither assassin replied. Pierce took a glass down from the cabinet for himself and poured out a measure of milk. It was a post-workout habit from his younger days to promote muscle gain and repair any damage caused by exercising. Eyeing the two assassins, he supposed neither of them needed it; both possessed an enhanced metabolic, cellular and chemical process in their bodies. There was a flash of silver as Melinoë idly twirled the blade between her fingers and Pierce took that as his cue to conclude small talk.

"The timetable has moved. Our window is limited," he said, taking a gulp from the glass of milk. He moved out from behind the kitchen counter and towards the table. "Two targets; level six. They already cost me Zola."

He sat opposite the Winter Soldier and looked directly at him. "I want confirmed death in ten hours."

"Sorry, Mr. Pierce, I…" It was Renata. She had returned noiselessly and entered the kitchen. Pierce saw Melinoë's grip on the dagger tighten as he turned to face his housemaid. "I forgot my phone."

It was the way that her eyes flicked from him to the two assassins that sealed her fate.

Pierce's face crumpled; she'd been a good housemaid and a friendly face around the home. "Oh, Renata, I wish you would have knocked."

Unhesitatingly, he picked up the Winter Soldier's handgun and shot her twice. She stumbled backwards, screaming, and fell onto the run in his open-plan living room. Pierce threw the gun carelessly back onto the table with a clatter. He turned to face the two assassins.

"And now they've cost me my housemaid," Pierce added. "Do we have a deal?"

Their defensive postures relaxed ever so slightly and there was a greater deal of trust in their expressions as they looked upon their employer. They didn't communicate but it seemed as though they both knew what the other was thinking. The Winter Soldier gave Piece an affirmative nod. _Deal accepted._


	8. Unravelling

A day later than usual due to a migraine but hopefully worth the wait!

I've enjoyed mixing the real with the imaginary during this tie-in chapter so I hope you enjoy.

**The Broken, the Beaten and the Damned  
Chapter 8**

Natasha regained consciousness as they were crossing the state lines into Maryland. Steve's eyes cut to her as she groaned and stretched. Her face was clouded with confusion but, as the events of the last few days caught up with her, he watched the emotions play across her face with surprising clarity. Noticing she had an audience, a careful mask of indifference slipped onto her features. For a brief moment, she looked as though she wanted to say something – perhaps a face-saving, aloof remark – but then visibly decided against it. Instead, an unbroken silence settled between them. Natasha slid further down into her seat and stared out of the window at the dark landscape with unseeing eyes.

Steve wondered what she was thinking. He envied how easily she could hide her emotions from the world. In contrast, Steve knew that his own feelings were painted vividly across his face. Everything that he had fought against and sacrificed for had been for nothing. HYDRA was still operating from within the very institution designed to fight against it. Just how deep did the rot go? He couldn't help but imagine Howard, Peggy and Colonel Phillips spit-balling ideas about how they would reinvent the SSR as S.H.I.E.L.D., never knowing that the organisation they strived to create would orchestrate two of their murders.

And now they had tried to murder Steve and Natasha.

"If you want out," Steve started, eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead, "then now's the time to say so."

This didn't have to be Natasha's fight. He wouldn't blame her if she chose to walk away; he would, however, acknowledge deep down that it would be lonely without her. For better or for worse, he had gotten used to her presence – as infuriating as it could be at times.

"S.H.I.E.L.D. has waged war with Captain America and they're going to get it," Steve told her, "but you don't have to stick with this if–"

"I'm in."

Steve finally looked at her. Natasha's expression was stony but resolute. She repeated, "I'm in."

It was clear she didn't have anything else to add on the subject. He gave a brief nod. "Okay."

It had been a no-brainer, as far as Steve was concerned, to go to Sam Wilson. The war veteran was Steve's only friend in D.C. – unless he counted Natasha, but that was still debatable. That hadn't made turning up on Sam's doorstep in the early dawn, stinking of smoke and supporting a weary Natasha any less awkward, however. Despite the predicament they had placed him in, Sam had been a gracious and welcoming host. They'd caught him up on everything that had happened to them and he'd informed them that, officially, Captain America was labelled as AWOL.

"There's a ten-thousand-dollar reward for any information on your whereabouts," Sam told them.

"Is that all?" Natasha asked drolly.

"What are they saying I'm wanted for?" Steve asked.

"Questioning regarding the murder of a government official," Sam said. "S.H.I.E.L.D. are being clever; they're not overtly labelling you as the murderer but they're not denying it either. They're making out that they're concerned for your wellbeing whilst allowing the news broadcasters to show your more… bloody takedowns, shall we say? They're sowing a real nice seed: concern for you mixed with fear of you."

As well as keeping them up to date on the latest lies that S.H.I.E.L.D. was spinning, Sam had also allowed them to clean up in his guestroom – something that they were both thankful for. He'd even managed to procure some clothes for Steve that were a better fit than the stolen ensemble that he was currently wearing. Natasha had showered first whilst Steve dozed on the spare bed, gratefully closing his eyes for the first time in days.

Sooner than he would have liked, Natasha was throwing a damp towel at him. "C'mon, old fella. We haven't got all day."

With a groan, Steve dragged himself to his feet and into the adjoining bathroom. Stripped down to his wifebeater, Steve scrubbed at the soot that clung to his skin. Through the reflection of the mirror, he could see that Natasha was sat on the edge of the bed, fiddling aimlessly with her hair as she stared into space.

"You okay?" he asked, concern lacing his tone.

"Yeah." She raised the towel and resumed towel-drying the ends of her hair, her eyes too-wide and too-innocent. Steve wouldn't accept her brush off; not this time. Throwing the towel that he'd been using into the hamper, Steve crossed into the bedroom and sat opposite her.

"What's going on?" he pressed.

To his surprise, the words spilled easily from the usually tight-lipped, stoic agent. "When I first joined S.H.I.E.L.D., I thought I was going straight," she admitted, "but I guess I just traded the KGB for HYDRA. I thought I knew whose lies I was telling but…" she shrugged helplessly, "I guess I can't tell the difference anymore."

"There's a chance you might be in the wrong business." It was a gamble, using her words from the day before against her but Steve hoped that his small smile took the potential sting away.

"I owe you."

Steve hadn't expected that. He shook his head in denial. "It's okay."

"If it was the other way around," Natasha pressed, "and it was me – now you be honest with me – would you trust me to do it?"

"I would now," he stated. "And I'm always honest."

He gave her another small, friendly smile which, this time, she returned.

"Well you seem pretty chipper for someone who just found out they died for nothing."

Steve had had time to come to terms with the betrayal of S.H.I.E.L.D. He had taken his anger and melded it into something more useful – determination to root out the evil and take it down. "Well, I guess I just like to know who I'm fighting."

They were interrupted by the arrival of Sam. He leant casually in the doorway. "I made breakfast. If you guys eat that sort of thing."

Steve raised his eyebrows at Natasha. "I don't know, Nat; what do you say? Do spies and super soldiers eat breakfast?"

Sam grinned. "Alright; point taken."

He disappeared again. Steve rose to follow and made it to the doorway before Natasha's plaintive voice caused him to stop. "That girl on the recording… it was the same one in the photograph, wasn't it?"

Steve didn't turn. For a moment, Natasha thought he'd start walking again and not answer her – just like he had done in the depths of Camp Lehigh. She saw the tension ripple across the muscles in his shoulders. Eventually, he inclined his head ever so slightly towards her.

"Her name was Peggy," his voice was low and rough as he finally answered Natasha's question. "She was more than just some girl. She was killed during the 1947 bombing of the Stark Expo in Malibu. Evidently, orchestrated by HYDRA."

Steve turned haunted eyes on Natasha. She never would have been able to fully describe the expression that hung in his eyes, but she would see the same look on Barton's face, many years later. "I loved her. And I think she loved me."

Natasha didn't say anything but watched Steve with soft eyes. He scrubbed a hand down his tired face. Steve hesitated before telling her about what had been plaguing him for nearly thirty-six hours.

"The female assassin – you said she was called Melinoë after the Goddess of Nightmares and Madness," Steve reminded her. "When she touches a person, she can induce a nightmare in them. She touched my wrist when I was fighting her after Fury was shot and I was instantly transported into some kind've surreal dream sequence.

'I was in a dancehall, but everything was off. Then Peggy was there and, somehow, all the stuff that had been off didn't matter anymore. We were dancing…

'But then she was gone and everyone else was gone and I was stood in the empty dancehall on my own. I turned around and she…" he faltered. "I saw her as she would have been at the Expo. I saw her in the explosion. I saw her die."

"I'm sorry," Natasha said and, for once, it didn't sound like hollow sentiment.

"If we find the assassins, we're taking them down," Steve assured her heatedly. "For what he did to you, and for what she did to me."

Once Steve, Natasha and Sam had established that Sitwell was likely a member of HYDRA, it hadn't taken them long to locate the agent and extract the required information from him. Fear had worked exceptionally well at loosening his lips.

Not that what he had told them was particularly comforting. In fact, it was downright terrifying. If HYDRA used the helicarriers and Zola's algorithm to destroy any potential threats, then who knew how many civilian casualties there would be in total? It was a six-or-seven-digit number that Steve didn't want to think about.

So now the three of them, along with Sitwell as their unwilling ally, were speeding down the freeway in Sam's Chevrolet whilst Steve outlined his plan. It was simple enough – break in using Sitwell's DNA, access the helicarriers and disable them with, preferably, minimal fuss.

Of course, Sitwell wasn't best pleased with the plan. He was halfway through whining when there was a dull thud as something hit the roof of Sam's car.

The backseat window smashed open and Sitwell was dragged through the gap. He was thrown, screaming, through the air. His scream only cut off when he landed on the windshield of a truck travelling in the opposite direction; his body reduced to nothing more than pink, bloody mist.

_So much for __**that **__plan_.

A bullet ripped through the roof of the car. Natasha scrambled over the middle console and into Steve's lap. Wrapping an arm around the back of his neck, she yanked him forwards as a second bullet tore into the headrest of his seat. Sam jerked his head to one side to avoid the same treatment from a third bullet.

Taking hold of the gear shift, Steve slammed it into Park. The tyres squealed on the tarmac as the car broke hard. They watched as the Winter Soldier flew through the air and landed in a roll on the bridge before them. Metal fingers dug into the road, ripping up a trail of concrete as he attempted to reduce his momentum.

"Jesus, you weren't kidding," Sam said, his tone low with unconcealed awe.

Steve eyed the predator in front of them as the Winter Soldier rose with deliberate slowness. He planted his feet in a wide stance. "Sam," Steve ordered, "Get us out of here."

Natasha cocked her Glock 26 and pointed it at the Winter Soldier through the windshield. Before she could pull the trigger, a speeding Hummer rammed into them from behind and the handgun was thrown to the floor. Sam gripped the steering wheel, trying to keep the car steady as the Hummer continued to hurl them forwards, straight towards the seemingly unruffled assassin. The Winter Soldier waited until the car was inches away before vaulting over the hood and onto the roof, his booted feet slamming into the rear windshield and smashing the glass.

Sam slammed his foot down on the brake, smoke billowing up from the tyres as the Hummer continued to shunt them forwards at breakneck speed. Natasha scrambled for her gun and finally managed to catch it as the metal arm smashed through the front windshield, effortlessly ripping the steering wheel out from the car. Sam cursed loudly as Natasha aimed upwards and shot at the Winter Soldier on the roof.

The assassin leapt from their car and onto the hood of the Hummer. Sam stepped on the accelerator to create some distance but, without a steering wheel, he had no way of controlling the speeding vehicle. They weaved dangerously and bounced off of a blue Hyundai. The Hummer sped up and hit them again from behind, pushing them into a tailspin which was only righted when they were thrown into the concrete barrier.

Through the busted windshield, Steve saw a sight that made his gut tighten painfully.

Melinoë stood before them with the same reckless attitude towards the speeding car as her partner had shown moments earlier. Dark hair braided into a thick rope; she braced a M4A1 assault rifle with an attached grenade launcher against her shoulder. The enhanced weapon was aimed directly at them. Steve hastily wedged his shield between himself and the car door before pulling Natasha and Sam against him.

"Hold on!"

As the Hummer smashed into them a final time and Melinoë peppered the car with bullets, Steve forced his weight against the shield and popped the car door off of its hinges. They dropped out of the twisted mass of metal that had once been Sam's car. The Chevrolet flipped and tumbled down the freeway.

Steve, Natasha and Sam skidded after it with only the car door and Steve's shield protecting them against the unforgiving concrete. A shower of red-gold sparks followed in their wake. Sam let go of Steve, elbows tucked in as he rolled across the road. Steve kept a protective hold on Natasha as they rode out the momentum of their makeshift sledge.

The Hummer sped past them and screeched to a halt as Steve and Natasha scrambled to their feet. The Winter Soldier jumped down from the hood of the Hummer and stood beside his partner. Melinoë aimed the rifle at them again and Steve shoved Natasha away from him, ducking beneath his star-spangled shield as the grenade hit. It exploded against the vibranium, throwing Steve into the air and off of the bridge. The shield flew from his arm before he smashed through the front windshield of a bus, vaguely aware of the screams of the passengers as the bus flipped onto its side.

Steve was insensible for several moments. Wincing, he started to pull himself to his feet. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the passengers aiding each other in their evacuation of the public transport. _Good_, he thought vaguely. _It was nice when people pulled together_.

Steve's respite didn't last long before bullets were pinging off of the metal of the bus. The whir of the M134 minigun gave him a moment's warning before the unforgiving onslaught of bullets tore through the bus. Wits returning to him, Steve ran through the length of the bus and sincerely hoped the civilians had gotten themselves to safety.

Bursting through the rear windshield, Steve grabbed his shield from the ground as the slugs continued to rain down upon him from four separate shooters. Angling the vibranium metal, a bullet ricocheted off of the surface of the shield and hit one of his assailants, incapacitating them. Gaining confidence, Steve forced himself to walk in a crouch towards the shooter with the minigun. To his right, a second shooter hit the ground. Steve cautioned a look over the top of his shield; Sam had managed to retrieve a rifle from one of their attackers and was picking off the shooters from atop the bridge.

Steve broke into a run. He climbed onto the car that the shooter toting the M134 stood on top of and vaulted over his assailant before smashing him into the roof of the car. The incapacitated shooter didn't rise again. Dropping down to the ground, Steve crouched behind the car and looked up to Sam. The ex-soldier was in a gunfight with another of Steve's attackers.

"Go!" Sam shouted. "I got this!"

He continued to shoot, giving Steve some much needed cover as he ran out from his hiding spot and into the open. Fear coiled in his belly; he didn't know where Natasha, the Winter Soldier or Melinoë were. Steve vaulted over cars and ducked around vans as he ran through the streets, arms pumping. Civilians seemed to be running and screaming towards him, so he supposed he was heading in the right direction. An explosion came from the left and he followed the sound.

Steve saw the flick of Natasha's vibrant hair as she ducked behind a car, pursued by the Winter Soldier. The assassin jumped onto the roof of a car and aimed his gun at the Russian spy. Pushing himself into a sprint, Steve ran straight at the Winter Soldier, distracting him from his prey.

Steve threw his shield up as the metal fist was thrown outwards. The resounding clang reverberated down his arm. Steve's eyes widened in shock. His shield was supposed to be completely vibration absorbent – or, at least, that was what Howard had told him in 1943.

Steve couldn't linger on that thought for long. Using his elevated height, the Winter Soldier pushed the shield out of the way and kicked Steve in the chest. They were both thrown backwards. The soldier shot at Steve who used his shield to deflect the bullets, before rolling off of the roof of the car and throwing the rifle away. Removing the Skorpion from the holster at the top of his back, the Winter Soldier shot rapidly at Steve as the latter ducked behind a car.

Whilst the soldier was distracted with the reloading of his gun, Steve leapt over the car and kicked the Skorpion out of the assassin's hand. Spinning away, the Winter Soldier produced a silver pistol that he shot three times at Steve's shield. Steve ducked and punched his attacker in the jaw.

The third gun was also discarded. Steve brought his shield up to hit the Winter Soldier, but he caught it in his metal arm and shoved the shield away. Steve deflected the jab aimed at his ribs but caught a hard punch to the jaw. The Winter Soldier grabbed the shield in two hands and used it to flip Steve over before ripping the shield from his arm.

Steve punched twice; the first hit his own shield whilst the second hit the assassin in his metal arm. He could already feel the bruises blooming across his knuckles at the contact. The Winter Soldier punched Steve in the chest, throwing him off of his feet and Steve rolled backwards into a crouch.

The Winter Soldier held the shield in a defensive posture and Steve felt anger blister through his veins.

He sprinted at the Winter Soldier who launched the shield back at Steve. Dancing out of the way, he missed the metal disk as it flew through the air and embedded itself into the rear doors of an abandoned van. Steve continued running at his attacker.

Melinoë, however, leapt out of nowhere. She grabbed him by the throat and dragged them both to the floor. They rolled back to their feet and he swung at her. She blocked his arm and, using his now exposed torso to her advantage, jabbed at him twice in the ribs. Her small fist was deceptively powerful.

Steve brought his elbow down hard, breaking her block and hit her in the chin with a savage uppercut. She flew backwards as the Winter Soldier swept in, a knife in his hand. He slashed at Steve repeatedly, deftly throwing the blade from one hand to the other between swipes. Steve blocked each move and smashed his fist into the soldier's jaw. He followed this up by jumping and spinning in the air before kicking the Winter Soldier in the chest which threw him backwards into the side of a van.

The Winter Soldier dented the metal of the vehicle on impact. Steve ran at him and jumped, bringing his knee up and slamming it into the assassin's throat. The soldier pushed Steve backwards, creating distance between them as Melinoë re-joined the fray.

Steve was then fighting them simultaneously, ducking and blocking blows from both sides.

Melinoë threw Steve bodily over the hood of the van and he hit the concrete, momentarily winded. The Winter Soldier leapt after him and punched as Steve rolled away, leaving an imprint in the concrete. Steve was kicked into the side of the van and the Winter Soldier brought his knife up, aiming to slam it through Steve's skull. The latter, however, used his forearm to block the attack.

With a metallic whir, the male assassin drove the knife further forwards with his bionic arm. Steve ducked hastily to one side. The blade embedded itself into the wall of the van. The soldier tried to pin Steve in place as he forced the blade to the right, tearing through the metal. Steve moved rapidly with him, avoiding the bite of the steel. Ducking beneath his attacker's arm, Steve grabbed the Winter Soldier around the waist and slammed them both to the ground.

Swinging his legs over his head, Steve leapt to his feet. He removed his shield from the doors of the van and brought it to smash into the Winter Soldier's face.

Melinoë's foot swung round to kick Steve in the temple. Momentarily dazed, he spun away and, in doing so, allowed his father's compass to slip from his pocket. He lunged for it but Melinoë was quicker, snatching it up from where it landed by her feet.

"Don't touch that!" he snarled at her.

"Feeling sentimental?" her tone was flat through the respirator.

Unlatching the lid, Melinoë looked inside before turning strangely blank eyes on him.

Steve smashed his elbow down on her shoulder and she buckled, her hand opening reflexively. The compass dropped from her fingers and he caught it, snapping the lid shut before the image of Peggy could flutter free. He slipped it back into his pocket, rage burning through him.

Bringing his leg up, he stamped brutally down on her thigh and then backhanded her across the cheek. As she flipped backwards, the Winter Soldier grabbed at Steve's arm. He spun the Winter Soldier around and slammed his shield into the back of the assassin's shoulder, forcing the edge of his shield between the joints of metal. His free hand grabbed the face of the male assassin, flipped him over his shoulder and to the floor. The respirator fell away.

Melinoë attacked from behind, jumping up and wrapping her thighs around Steve in an effective takedown that he had seen Natasha apply countless times. They rolled to the floor and she landed on top of his chest, pinning him to the ground with her knees on either side of his arms. Instead of fighting him, as he expected, she fixed him with a glare.

"Who are you?" she demanded.

Steve wriggled his arms free. He punched, right and then left, but she swatted them away impatiently. The third time his hand came up, his grasping fingers found the edge of the respirator which he ripped away. All of the air left his lungs as the fight went out of him.

_Peggy_.

Her braid hung down, tickling his neck, but a few tendrils had fallen free and stirred in breeze around her face. Her brows were contracted in a mixture of frustrated confusion. Her jaw was set, lips pursed. If Steve were to sit up, then his mouth would be on hers in an instant. Her eyes, however, usually so warm and brown, were looking at him with a blank fury.

"Stop with the mind games!" he shouted.

There was a pause. He glanced down and saw that both of her hands were fisted in his shirt. Belatedly, he realised that this was no nightmare illusion. Steve couldn't think straight. He threw her off of him and they both scrabbled to their feet.

They were suspended in time.

They stood staring at each other, wordlessly. Without stopping to consider whether his actions would be considered ill-advised, Steve took a faltering step towards her and brushed his fingertips against her icy cheek. She was solid and real beneath his touch.

"Peggy," he choked out.

A frown puckered her brow and her lips parted on a hitched breath. Without warning, she sucker-punched him in the throat. Steve stumbled backwards, gasping as he struggled to breathe.

At that moment, Sam suddenly arrived wearing his wings. He flew onto the scene and kicked the Winter Soldier in the back, sending him sprawling. Peggy seemed to recall herself and Steve watched as the persona of Melinoë slipped back into place. She removed a Glock from a holster and aimed it at Steve, shooting three times. He only just managed to snatch up his shield from the floor and duck behind it.

Peggy stumbled backwards, surprised as a choked sob tore through her.

From behind Steve, Natasha retrieved the M4A1 with the grenade launcher that the Winter Soldier had thrown away earlier. She shot a grenade over Steve's shoulder and it hit a van which exploded into a ball of flames. The wail of sirens filled the air as Peggy turned and ran away from Steve, even as he stepped towards her.

The Winter Soldier scrambled to his feet as Peggy approached him. He looked past his female counterpart and straight into Steve's eyes. For the second time that day, Steve felt as though someone was squeezing his lungs beyond their capacity.

"Bucky?" he managed to rasp out.

"Who the hell is Bucky?" the Winter Soldier asked in a voice as flat as Peggy's had been.

An assortment of S.H.I.E.L.D. vehicles burst onto the scene, surrounding Steve, Natasha and Sam. The sirens were deafening. Doors to the vehicles were thrown open and armed agents swept onto the scene. Steve watched as Peggy ran to Bucky who gripped her by the upper arms before they both disappeared in a puff of blue-black smoke.

Rumlow and his corrupted S.T.R.I.K.E. team barked orders, their rifles trained on Steve, Natasha and Sam. Steve had nothing left in him to fight with. Dropping his shield to the floor, he allowed Rumlow the satisfaction of kicking him in the back of the knee as he sank to the ground, arms held upwards in a non-threatening posture.

He felt the barrel of a rifle press to the back of his head and, in his peripheral vision, saw Rollins glaring at him. Rumlow brought Steve's hands behind his back and handcuffed them together. There was a tension that Steve couldn't quite place radiating off of Rumlow.

The rotary blade of a helicopter cut through even the wail of the sirens. The distracted leader of the S.T.R.I.K.E. team glanced at it and then at his second-in-command.

"Put the gun down," he ordered Rollins. "Not here. _Not here_."

Rollins lowered the gun. Dragging Steve to his feet, he forced him towards the same van that Natasha and Sam were being bundled into. Steve barely noticed anything. The only thing he could think of was the image of Bucky and Peggy clinging to each other before disappearing.

Music recommendations for Chapter Eight:

From 'Jesus Christ, you weren't kidding…' (P51) to 'They were suspended in time.' (P96): Funeral March (Official Chopin Epic Cover) by 2WEI from Sequels – to be played on repeat.


	9. A Life of Lies

Late again, I'm afraid. I had so many issues with this chapter but it finally managed to come together. The chapter went in a direction I wasn't expecting and yet I'm happy that it did. Hopefully you enjoy it too!

Warnings: This chapter contain graphic descriptions of injuries caused by fire. It also contains graphic descriptions of torture. Readers discretion is advised.

* * *

**The Broken, the Beaten and the Damned**

**Chapter 9**

Steve, Natasha and Sam were all equally subdued as they rode in the back of the armoured truck with their two helmeted guards. They bumped along in silence, not knowing where they were going. The best-case scenario would be S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, but Steve didn't expect them to make it that far. His hands were now in front of him, cuffed in blocks of solid metal that pinched the skin. He barely noticed the pain, however; too preoccupied with the turmoil running through his mind.

Snatches of the last few days kept replaying over and over again. Peggy twirling into his arms… His shield being caught in a metal, one-handed catch… Zola's sinister face splitting into two… Peggy's expression before she sucker-punched in the throat… Bucky skidding across the freeway with his metal fingers tearing through concrete… Fury warning him not to trust anyone… The tears in Mr. Jarvis' eyes… Bucky blankly questioning his own name…

"You alright there, Cap?" Sam finally asked, breaking the silence. "You look as though you've seen a ghost."

Steve looked at his friend, inwardly wincing at how correct Sam was. "Actually," he said, his voice still hoarse from the blow to his larynx, "I've seen two."

Acutely aware of their silent guard but choosing to ignore them, Steve outlined for Natasha and Sam everything that had happened during his fight with 'the Winter Soldier' and 'Melinoë'.

"It was both of them; Bucky and Peggy," he finished. "They're alive. They both looked right at me and neither one knew who I was."

"So you're saying your best friend and kinda-sorta-girlfriend from the 1940s are both homicidal maniacs who just tried to kill us?" Sam asked. "How is that even possible?"

"I don't know," Steve admitted. "Zola experimented on Bucky in '43 after his whole unit was captured. Whatever he did helped Bucky survive the fall," he guessed, piecing his theory together aloud. "As for Peggy, as far as anyone's aware she died in '47 and has been buried in England ever since.

'HYDRA must've found the both of them and…" he trailed off, unable to comprehend exactly what his enemies had done to the two people in Steve's life that he had cared the most for.

"None of this is your fault, Steve," Natasha reassured him, softly.

"Even when I had nothing, I had Bucky," he said. "And when I lost him, it was Peggy who stepped up and pulled me back from my grief."

Natasha shifted in her seat, wincing uncomfortably. The blood from the wound on her shoulder was steadily spreading. Steve couldn't help the tightening in his gut when he looked at the gunshot wound, courtesy of the Winter Soldier. That was twice now that Bucky had shot Natasha.

Bucky, who had looked at him with such blank, uncomprehending eyes. Just how deeply was his friend buried inside the Winter Soldier?

"We need a doctor here," Sam told their guards. He grew frustrated at their unmoved silence. "If we don't put pressure on that wound, she's gonna bleed out!"

The guard on the left retracted an electroshock blade. Steve flinched, the memory of the elevator still fresh; he could recall how the electricity had passed through his Captain America suit as though it was nothing, allowing the current to race across his skin and steal his breath away. The guard held it out threateningly. Then, with a flick of their wrist, they jabbed it straight into the breastplate of the second guard, who slumped to the floor.

Steve and Sam stared at the guard in wide-eyed shock. Natasha merely tried to keep her eyes from sliding out of focus. The still-conscious guard tugged off their helmet, revealing the brunette head of Maria Hill.

She groaned in relief. "That thing was squeezing my brain," she complained. Brushing her hair out of her face, she looked between Sam and Steve. "Who's this guy?"

"Maria, Sam; Sam, Maria. Maria worked for Fury; Sam's an ex-pararescue," Steve hastily introduced. He turned to Maria. "What're you doing here?"

"Saving your asses, of course," Maria stated immodestly.

She pulled a Mouse Hole out of her pocket and twisted the bottom. The blue laser cracked to life. "We'll have to be quick. We don't have much time."

Maria swiftly sawed through each of their handcuffs until all of the prisoners were free. She then dropped to the floor and cut a substantial hole into the base of the van. They waited until the van pulled to a stop before Maria scrambled out of the bottom, followed by Steve. Sam helped lower Natasha down before crawling through himself. They tucked their elbows in and crawled, leaving the undercarriage of the van and clambering between the parked cars at the side of the road.

Once on the sidewalk, Natasha sat back against the tyre of a car and clutched her wounded shoulder. Maria and Steve peered around the car to look at the line of S.H.I.E.L.D. vehicles, all stopped at the traffic lights. They waited with baited-breath. Finally, the lights turned green and the convoy moved on. When the last S.H.I.E.L.D. vehicle whipped out of sight, they allowed themselves to breathe easier.

Steve eyed Maria. He wasn't about to be too forthcoming with the trust. "Why did you really come to D.C.?" he asked. "And don't tell me it was to give 'fresh perspective' to a case because I'm not buying it."

"Fury phoned me. All he said was that he needed me in D.C. He said it was 'deep shadow conditions'," Maria told him. She paused before adding, "You weren't the only one who didn't know who they could trust, Rogers."

Steve nodded, accepting her answer. "Okay. Where to now?"

"I have a van parked not too far away. We can wrap Natasha's shoulder until she can receive proper medical attention."

"And then?"

"S.H.I.E.L.D. may be compromised but we aren't the only people still loyal to Fury."

* * *

The abandoned dam on the outskirts of Washington D.C. may have been a big step down from the shiny S.H.I.E.L.D. facility on the Potomac River, but at least these people weren't trying to kill Steve, Natasha or Sam. Maria briskly walked ahead, leaving them scurrying to keep up as Steve supported Natasha through the concrete corridors. Finally, she stopped and pulled aside a plastic curtain.

Nick Fury lay in a hospital bed, still bruised and beaten but very much alive with his signature eye patch.

"About damn time," he said, as way of greeting.

Steve felt Natasha sag a little more against him but this time in stunned relief, rather than pain. He relinquished her into the capable hands of Dr. Fine who sat her in a chair and started to attend to her gunshot wound. Steve stepped up beside Fury's bed, unable to speak. Luckily, Fury started the conversation for him as he listed the injuries sustained from the Winter Soldier's bullets.

"…but otherwise, I'm good," he finished.

"They cut you open. Your heart stopped," Natasha stated, sounding more childlike than Steve had ever heard her.

"Tetrodotoxin B," Fury told her. "Slows the pulse to one beat a minute. Banner developed it for stress. Didn't work so great for him but we found a use for it."

"Why all the secrecy? Who not just tell us?" Steve demanded. The relief at seeing Fury alive had faded. Now, all that remained was the prior resentment that he had felt toward this man before he 'died'.

"Any attempt on the Director's life had to look successful," Maria said.

"Can't kill you, if you're already dead," Fury stated succinctly. He sighed before adding, "Besides, I wasn't sure who to trust."

Fury shifted himself into more of a sitting position with a grunt of discomfort. "So, we hear you destroyed Camp Lehigh – I guess that means you found something."

"What we found was Arnim Zola," Steve said, "Alive and kicking – so to speak – as artificial intelligence."

"Zola's created an algorithm," Natasha inputted, grimacing as Dr. Fine started to dig the bullet out of her shoulder. "The algorithm identifies anyone who is – or predicts who could potentially become – a threat to S.H.I.E.L.D."

"And, if they're a big enough threat, then the helicarriers will be used to wipe that person out," Sam finished. He folded his arms across his chest. "I'm pretty interested to hear what the guy who sanctioned these helicarriers has to say about that."

"If you expect me to apologise then you're gonna be waiting a long time," Fury replied staunchly.

"Don't you feel any sense of responsibility?" Sam asked incredulously.

Fury levelled him with his one-eyed stare. Sam didn't back down and Steve felt a sense of pride over his friend. Fury rolled his gaze to Steve.

"Hill tells me it was the Winter Solider who shot me and that he's running with his old pal, Melinoë. I take it they've been hired by HYDRA?"

Steve shifted uncomfortably and dropped his gaze. Natasha was suddenly very interested in the work Dr. Fine was doing to her arm and Sam had dropped his defensive posture. A crease formed between Fury's brow, so Maria stepped forward.

"Sir, there have been some… er… developments since the last time we spoke."

"Then, please, Hill, enlighten me."

Maria attempted to stammer out a response and Fury's eyebrows rose at her surprising loss of words. Eventually, Steve broke the silence.

"You know my story," Steve said to Fury, saving Maria from having to explain. "You know my file, my history, everything."

"I do," Fury confirmed.

"I'm sure you know that my best friend, James Barnes, was killed during a Howling Commandos mission in '45 and that a woman I met during the war, Peggy Carter, was killed in '47 during the bombing at Howard Stark's Expo," Steve said. He took a deep, steadying breath before pushing on. "Somehow, these two apparently-dead people have just attacked us, on HYDRA's orders, as the Winter Soldier and Melinoë."

Fury gave a low whistle. "Damn."

"So, sir, what I want to know is everything that you have on the both of them." The bite of steel in Steve's tone told them that this was not a request. "And, from this moment on, no more lies."

For a moment, Fury glared at Steve and looked as though he would refuse out of pure stubbornness. Eventually, he said, "Fine. I'll give you what we have. Mind you, it's not a lot. But, first things first – Hill, get me out of this damn bed."

* * *

Nestled on the corner between two skyscrapers, the opulent Federal Savings Bank was the perfect headquarters for HYDRA in the centre of Washington D.C. The building allowed them to hide in plain sight and was close to both the Triskelion and the United States Capitol – ideal for HYDRA's plans to infiltrate national security as well as politics. A small convoy of S.H.I.E.L.D. vehicles drove into the underground parking lot and screeched to a halt before the Winter Soldier and Melinoë were hustled into the building.

Surrounded by members of Rumlow's S.T.R.I.K.E. team, they were ushered upstairs and through the main lobby of the abandoned bank. The barred doors to what had once been the main vault slid open to allow the group entry. The safety deposit boxes that lined the walls were the only thing in the vault to make sense; the rest of the room had been converted into a HYDRA laboratory.

Heavy metal boxes were stacked on the right side of the room, used to transport medical and scientific equipment. Off-centre was a reclining chair with restraints on the arm rests. Two posts extended from the back of the chair and held aloft a broken circle of metal which ended in rectangular pads. The Memory Suppressor Machine was attached by wires to monitors on wheels that assessed the body's vitals, such as brain activity and stress levels.

For the first in a long time, Melinoë felt a spike of anxiety when she looked at the Memory Suppressor Machine.

Three technicians in lab coats were working on the machines. They had a brief conversation with Rollins and then Brother was taken to the chair. They assessed the damage caused to his cybernetic arm by the targets. Sitting him down, two of the technicians worked on repairing his arm whilst the third checked his vitals, assessed any injuries caused during the fight and typed his findings into the computer. Brother didn't react as the technicians pulled and poked at him.

Melinoë stood to one side, arms loose at her sides but posture rigidly straight.

She was feeling something that she had not felt in a long time. She couldn't, however, recall the name of the emotion or how she knew what it was. The emotion simply seemed to fill her, causing discomfort.

Physically, she was in the room with Brother and the technicians and the S.T.R.I.K.E. team. Mentally, she was back where this had all started.

* * *

Two nights ago, a rooftop in Washington D.C.,

They had been warned that their target was strong. They were stronger. Brother stood by the rooftop edge, no longer fleeing but also not interfering. If he needed to, he would step in but right now he only watched as she danced and ducked around their target. Later, he would accuse her of 'playing with her food'.

In a disappointingly short amount of time, she saw her opportunity to strike. Bringing the dagger upwards, Melinoë was inches away from sinking the blade into the target's throat when his shield caught her sharply on the wrist. Her hand went numb. The knife dropped from her grip and fell away.

Not that the target could see but beneath her respirator she was smirking wickedly. Finally, she and Brother had a target that was worthy. They would enjoy tearing this one apart.

The target tried to jab her in the ribs, but she deftly jumped backwards. Curling her left hand into a fist, she feinted a left hook and the target brought his forearm up to block her punch. His shirt sleeve hitched upwards and an inch of skin was on show. Success. With her right hand, she gripped the exposed wrist.

Melinoë could feel her gift ebbing from her fingertips into the target. Instead of weakening her, it only made her stronger.

She closed her eyes as his nightmare started to come into focus. To begin with, it was as though she was listening to a badly-tuned radio. The sound ebbed and flowed, one moment muffled, the next loud and clear, then indistinct again. Finally, the image of the nightmare settled around her and everything was crystalline.

The target didn't see her; she was a mere spectre, witnessing his pain. She could use her gift to distract or incapacitate. With just the right amount of pressure, she could even use her gift to destroy.

The room they were in was very red and golden, smoky and cheerful. Couples from a bygone era enjoyed themselves. There was something vaguely familiar about it all. She followed the target through the crowded dance hall.

Dance hall? Where had that come from? she didn't know, but she knew she was correct.

She followed the target through the crowded dance hall until he stopped at the edge of the dance floor. He was different to on the roof; his hair was neatly combed and parted, he wore a military uniform and his expression was lost, confused. She didn't notice the arrival of the woman until she spoke.

"Are you ready for our dance?"

A predatory grin lit up Melinoë's face. This is where it would get interesting; this is where she would be able to tease and manipulate and punish.

The target turned to look at the woman as Melinoë's eyes slid to her. The grin slipped faster from Melinoë's face than she would have thought possible. In an instant, the target was forgotten. Melinoë stepped up to the woman who had spoken and stared into a replica of her own face; the same hair (though fancier and better maintained), the same brown eyes, nose and lips (even if unnaturally reddened), the same body clad in a dress that Melinoë thought out-dated and fussy (whilst also acknowledging a deep-seated longing to be wearing it).

Furiously, she wondered how the target had managed to out-ploy her gift. She spun around to face him, expecting to see a triumphant smile or a posture that was ready to attack following her distraction.

The target, however, only had eyes for the woman. He didn't speak but stared at her as though terrified she would disappear. There was a pain and longing in his eyes that Melinoë had rarely seen before.

"The war's over, Steve," the woman was saying. It was Melinoë's voice – in an accent that she rarely noticed.

"What's with the accent, Queen Victoria? Thought I was signing up for the U.S. Army."

Unbidden, a drawling arrogant voice cut through her thoughts. Melinoë spun around but none of the other patrons were paying them the slightest bit of attention.

What was happening?

Could her consciousness and the target's be bleeding together, creating this warped nightmare that trapped the both of them?

The woman took the target's hand decisively and spun towards him, smiling widely as she did so. Melinoë had forgotten what it felt like to smile. The target was smiling too; shyly and hesitantly but it was there. His eyes were fixed on the woman in a way that no-one had ever looked at Melinoë. It made her ache.

Suddenly the woman was gone. Melinoë whipped her head around but she wasn't anywhere to be seen. There had been no advanced warning, no slow dissolve or comical pop. The woman and the other patrons of the dance hall had simply disappeared. It was almost as though they had never been there in the first place. The target stood alone again, looking bereft without the woman in his arms.

Slowly he turned and Melinoë followed his eye line. The woman had returned but there were noticeable differences to before; she was dressed differently, her clothes were dishevelled and dirty, her hair lay in soft curls and she bore injuries that hadn't been there before. Melinoë tugged unconsciously at her right ear. The woman stood in the centre of the dance floor and didn't seem to see either the target or herself watching. Melinoë saw tears glitter in the woman's eyes. She should have felt outrage and disgust that this woman who shared her face would show such weakness, but she couldn't - not when the woman looked so defeated and alone.

"I've never been on this side of the radio before."

The woman didn't speak but the words whispered through the dance hall. The target stepped forwards. The explosion ripped the woman apart.

Melinoë snatched her hand away and in an instant was back on the rooftop in Washington D.C. She was thankful that she had her back to Brother because she didn't know what her face betrayed.

"What did you do?" the target choked out.

She didn't reply. She couldn't reply. For a moment, they stared at each other. His blue eyes were hopelessly tortured. She turned and ran towards Brother. She heard the rush of metal on the wind as the shield was thrown over her shoulder, but Brother caught it easily in his cybernetic arm and threw it back. They ran to the edge of the rooftop and jumped, she reached out for Brother and in a puff of blue-black smoke they teleported through the Darkforce Dimension...

...

Dr. Zola's face swam into view, looming over her. "Agent Carter," he said in heavily-accented English. "A rare pearl I never thought to acquire and yet, here we are."

The image stuttered. Looking down, she saw that she was strapped to an operating table. She couldn't move or speak – a pain like nothing else she had ever felt before ripped through her.

"With your gift, you shall reshape humanity forever," Zola continued.

She tried to argue, to deny him but only a pitiful wail escaped her lips.

...

Darkness. Emptiness. She walked on stumbling feet. Through the darkness appeared a monster.

The monster's face was half-melted away, sagging downwards in a perpetual frown. Mottled skin interspersed with angry red splotches of colour. Dark hair hung limply over its left shoulder but was singed away on the right-hand side. There was a gaping hole in the cheek, revealing stringy sinews of muscle. She stumbled backwards in horror and so did the monster.

She reached out a hand and it followed. Not a monster but a reflection.

Her mouth parted in a silent sob.

...

A second face swam into view beside Zola's; a face she knew only too well. Sergeant Barnes.

Zola wrapped a possessive arm around Barnes. "The Winter Soldier," Zola said, "is the new fist of HYDRA. Together, you will be unstoppable. A brother and sister reborn from the womb of HYDRA. The first of many."

...

"You son of a bitch!"

She jerked violently, desperately, but the prick of the needle still pierced her skin. Zola's own brand of super serum flooded through her veins. Her face was on fire again. She was ripped apart and pieced back together over and over again. She screamed until she was hoarse.

...

Removing a Glock from her holster, she aimed it at the target.

The image stuttered.

It was now a Colt pistol and they were working in Churchill's War Rooms in London. She shot three times at Steve's new shield as he ducked behind it. The sound reverberated around the underground bunker.

The image stuttered again.

The silver shield turned to red, white and blue. The target crouched behind it. The image was so achingly familiar.

She stumbled backwards and choked on a sob.

...

Her ankles and wrists were tied to a wooden chair. She was tipped backwards again. A towel was calmed over her face and an unrelenting torrent of stagnant water poured over her nose and mouth. She thrashed and spluttered. Finally, the water and towel were ripped away and the chair was righted. She coughed and heaved, spewing rancid water over herself.

"What's my name?" a voice hissed close to her ear.

"Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes," she rasped, "of the 107th–"

She was tipped back once more.

...

A hand gripped her forearm. She grabbed the wrist, twisted and pulled upwards. The bone broke with a snap. She brought her knee upwards and connected with a groin. She dropped the assailant. The technician writhed on the floor, howling in pain before Melinoë remembered where she was.

There was the click of multiple weapons being cocked. She looked around to see that every member of the S.T.R.I.K.E. team had a weapon trained on her. The other two technicians were cowering by the Memory Suppressor Machine. Brother was on his feet, glaring at her because she had done something wrong again.

* * *

Music recommendation:

From 'The target didn't see her;' (P72) to 'through the Darkforce Dimension...' (P93): 'District 12 Ruins' by James Newtown Howard from The Hunger Games: Mockingjay, pt. 1


	10. Going Rogue

**The Broken, the Beaten and the Damned  
Chapter 10**

Fury, Maria and Natasha sat around the closest thing to a conference table that this rogue division of S.H.I.E.L.D. owned whilst Steve and Sam stood. Steve was too agitated to take a seat and Sam seemed to be following his cue; a silent show of solidarity that Steve appreciated. Fury now wore a jacket draped over his shoulders to accommodate the sling for his fractured arm. There were three laptops open in front of Maria and a monitor on wheels had been rolled over for their use. Finally, a single box, half-filled with buff coloured folders was open on the table.

Steve looked disgustedly at the lack of information available to them.

"I did warn that it wasn't a lot," Fury said upon reading Steve's expression.

Fury pulled a slim manila folder out of the box and flipped it open. He removed a photograph and laid it on the table for them all to see. The monochrome image showed a man and woman, armed with rifles and wearing all black with respirators covering their lower faces. They walked ahead of a motley army down an avenue of palm trees, interspersed with ramshackle huts.

"As I'm sure you're aware, most agencies don't believe that the Winter Soldier and Melinoë are anything more than a ghost story," Fury began, echoing what Natasha had told Steve in the hospital. "I didn't believe in them either until six years ago when the Winter Soldier shot Natasha. Since then, we've been doing some digging. Until recently we presumed they worked for the KGB; now we know that they're spawned from HYDRA. Now, it's been difficult to distinguish between the fact and myth but all of the agents who _do_ believe in the Winter Soldier and Melinoë can agree on one thing…" he stabbed his finger down on the photograph. "_This_ was their first mission – Nombre de Dios, 1959."

Steve ground his teeth together. 1959 was fourteen years after Bucky had been taken by HYDRA and eleven years after Peggy had been taken. He didn't want to contemplate what HYDRA had been doing to them during those ensuing years.

"I've never heard of it," Natasha admitted. The bandage on her shoulder peeked out of the collar of her t-shirt, but she had regained some of her colour since having the wound attended to by Dr. Fine.

"Most people haven't," Maria replied. "It was such a small event in history that it's barely even noticeable."

"On April 25th, 1959, eighty-seven rebels and two unidentified leaders invaded Panama from the Caribbean Sea," Fury told them. "They set up a beachhead in Nombre de Dios, manned their defence and waited. By the time the initial investigation team arrived, the leaders had vanished, and the rebels surrendered without a fight."

"So what was the point?" Sam asked, trying to gauge the strategy of the operation.

Maria shifted in her seat. "Officially, the rebels surrendered after negotiation talks with the investigation team. They realised they wouldn't be able to win in a fight against the Panama forces that were due to arrive."

"And unofficially?" Steve prompted.

"Those that believe in our assassins think that this was a test to see what they could do," Fury stated. "In a short amount of time, the Winter Soldier and Melinoë were able to recruit men willing to rebel against their own country, arm them and set up a beachhead before the government even knew something was amiss. If they had wanted to, the Winter Soldier and Melinoë could have caused major disruption to the country."

"But they didn't," Natasha said.

"They didn't need to," Fury amended. "They'd already proven what they were capable of."

"In addition to that, some people believe that this mission was a warning to Fidel Castro," Maria added.

"How so?"

"Castro has just come into power in Cuba and his relationship with Panama was strained," Maria explained. "When the rebels were captured, they were questioned by the Panama forces and some claimed that it had been Raúl Castro – Fidel Castro's brother – who had sent them to invade Panama. It was embarrassing, to say the least, for the new Cuban government."

"So you think HYDRA sent Bucky and Peggy on this mission to show Castro that he wasn't as powerful as he believed?"

"It's possible," Fury concurred. "Why else would you start and end a rebellion in a few hours with very little action taken?" Fury took out the rest of the manila folders from the box – all as equally slim as the first – and laid them out on the table. "Since then, the Winter Soldier and Melinoë have been popping up and then disappearing throughout history. Each time, they wreak just a little more havoc."

Steve reached across the table and picked up one of the folders. "What's this?" he asked before reading the label on the front aloud, "November 22nd, 1963."

"The day Kennedy was assassinated," Natasha said hollowly.

Fury turned a grim face towards his deputy. "Hill, bring up the photos from 1963."

Maria rapidly tapped on the keyboards of one of the laptops. The monitor on wheels clicked to life, showing two photos that each filled half of the screen. Steve recognised them as the same images that Zola had shown to him and Natasha during his montage of horror in Camp Lehigh. The image on the left showed a man in a baseball hat, crouched on a steel walkway. His face was obscured by a rifle but the metal arm with the red star painted on the shoulder was easily recognisable. The image on the right showed the Kennedy's in the foreground, waving from the presidential motorcade. In the background, half-hidden amongst the assembled crowd was a woman in a headscarf and sunglasses, carrying a camera.

Steve shook his head incredulously. "You're not trying to suggest–"

"We're not _trying_ to suggest anything," Fury cut over him. "We're stating it as fact." He pointed aggressively at the monitor, his good eye glaring at Steve. "These two had a hand in the assassination of JFK. He pulled the trigger whilst she stood by and took photographs, presumably for HYDRA's scrapbook."

Steve reached for a different file. The date on this one was within the last few years, but the contents of the file was much of the same: assassinations, mayhem, stock crashes…

"For the last fifty-five years, the Winter Soldier and Melinoë have been aiding HYDRA in causing chaos throughout the world," Fury said. "And now, you're saying that these people are friends of yours, Cap."

Steve bristled, looking up from the file to return Fury's glare. "Bucky and Peggy have had their minds hijacked by HYDRA. That's the only reason why they've done any of this. They're no more in control of their actions than a marionette puppet." A bite of steel entered his tone. "And at the moment, it's _your_ friends, Fury, who are pulling the strings."

He tossed a photograph from the file onto the table. It landed face-up in front of Fury; a candid shot of a younger Alexander Pierce. Fury picked it up at the corner and gazed into the face of his old friend. For a moment, he was silent and contemplative.

"This man declined the Nobel Peace Prize," he finally told them. "He said, 'Peace wasn't an achievement. It was a responsibility'." A look of disgust crossed Fury's features and he dropped the photograph back onto the table. "See? It's stuff like this that gives me trust issues."

"In a few hours, Pierce is going to use those helicarriers to wipe out thousands of people," Maria said. She turned to Steve. "And he's going to do it with the help of your friends."

Steve tried to not outwardly wince at that last remark. He looked to Natasha but she was guarded, weary.

"We have to stop the launch," she said.

"I don't think the council's accepting my calls anymore," Fury replied. He produced a briefcase from under the table and opened it, revealing three identical microchips that were carefully nestled inside.

"What's that?" Sam asked, shifting uneasily.

"Once the helicarriers reach three-thousand feet, they'll triangulate with Insight satellites – becoming fully weaponised," Maria said.

"We need to breach those carriers, and replace their targeting blades with our own," Fury continued.

"One or two won't cut it," Maria explained, "We need to link all three carriers for this to work, because if even one of those ships is operational… a whole lot of people are gonna die."

Fury looked grim. "We have to assume that everyone aboard those carriers is HYDRA. We have to get passed them, insert these server blades and maybe, just maybe, we can salvage what's left."

"We're not salvaging anything," Steve suddenly cut in sharply, his voice echoing around the inner chambers of the dam. "We're not just taking down the helicarriers, Nick; we're taking down S.H.I.E.L.D."

"S.H.I.E.L.D. had nothing to do with this," Fury argued, his own voice starting to rise.

"You gave me this mission. This is how it ends. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s compromised; you said so yourself. HYDRA grew right under your nose and nobody noticed."

"Why do you think we're meeting in this cave?" Fury demanded. "I noticed."

"How many people paid the price before you did?" Steve asked accusingly. The pain of knowing what had happened to Bucky and Peggy bled into his words.

Fury's eye shifted uncomfortably between Natasha and Maria, as though seeking an ally, before finally settling on Steve again. His tone was gentler when he next spoke, and Steve couldn't help but wonder how much effort that cost him. "Look, I didn't know about Barnes or Carter."

"Even if you had, would you have told me?" Steve asked shrewdly. "Or would you have compartmentalised that, too?" Steve was uncompromising. "S.H.I.E.L.D. HYDRA. It all goes."

"He's right," Maria said quietly, looking imploringly at her boss. Fury turned an incredulous look upon her and then Natasha who was silent but resolute. Finally, he looked to Sam.

"Uh, don't look at me." Sam gave a casual shrug. "I do what he does, just slower."

Fury turned back to Steve and released a tiny, humourless laugh. "Well…" he leant back in his chair with a sigh. "Looks like you're giving the orders now, Captain."

Steve didn't respond because he didn't trust himself to speak.

* * *

Standing on the crest of the dam with his hands in his pockets, Steve looked with unseeing eyes out across the forest that surrounded him. He'd gotten what he wanted; they were going to take down both S.H.I.E.L.D. and HYDRA, and Fury had relinquished control to Steve, yet he still wasn't completely satisfied. The top priority of the mission was to stop the helicarriers, and Steve respected that, but was it wrong of him to admit that his other top priority would be to save Bucky and Peggy? Even if that meant saving them from themselves.

It was hypocritical, if nothing else. Only a few days ago, Steve had been berating Fury for not telling him about Natasha's mission that was hidden within his own mission on the Lemurian Star. The difference this time, however, was that it wasn't a secret that Steve longed to save his friends. If anything, it was painfully obvious.

Unbidden, memories of their shared past came back to him.

He'd been eighteen when his mother died, leaving him alone in a world that wasn't all that forgiving for scrawny wretches in Brooklyn. He'd been friends with Bucky for six years by then but it had seemed longer, as friendships forged in childhood and nurtured through adolescence are wont to do. Even now, all these years later, he could still feel the reassuring squeeze of Bucky's hand on his collarbone as they stood outside Sarah and Steve Rogers' apartment which was now solely Steve's.

"_I'm with you until the end of the line, pal._"

The memory shifted. He was older and, supposedly, wiser. He sat alone in an abandoned, bombed out pub in London. Two years previously, the pub had been thriving with life and activity. _Just like Bucky_. He'd sunk countless glasses of bourbon but Dr. Erskine's serum had treacherously prevented him from getting drunk – the only thing he had wanted in that moment. That time, it had been Peggy who had sought after him to provide comfort. In true Peggy fashion, her comfort had been brisk and to the point, with just a hint of a no-nonsense attitude. Somehow, it had been precisely what Steve had needed to bring him out of his melancholy.

"_You won't be alone_."

His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Sam. Steve sighed; he already knew what Sam was going to say because it was the same thing that he would say, if their roles were reversed. The difference, however, was that no one had known Bucky or Peggy before they became the playthings of HYDRA. They didn't know how broken Bucky had looked, strapped to Zola's operating table in Azzano as he mumbled incoherently to himself. They hadn't witnessed Peggy land a right-hook on Gilmore Hodge's arrogant, misogynistic jaw. They couldn't feel just how deeply it hurt Steve, knowing what Bucky and Peggy had been through and what they had become.

"They're gonna be there, y'know?" Sam said, breaking the silence as he approached.

"I know."

"Look, whoever they used to be and the people they are now – I don't think they're the kind've people you save." Sam hesitated ever so slightly before forging ahead, "They're the kind you stop."

Steve shifted uncomfortably but didn't look at Sam. "I don't know if I can do that."

"Well they might not give you a choice. They don't know you," Sam said firmly.

Steve eyed Sam steadily. "They will."

"There's no guarantee!" Sam argued, his voice rising and echoing across the forest. A bird took flight and flew away, squawking.

Steve raised an eyebrow at his friend. "What happened to, 'I do what he does'?"

Sam sighed, his temper cooling. "I will follow you into this mess, I will do what needs to be done – you can count on that," he assured before adding, "But I need to be able to count on the fact that, if necessary, you will do what needs to be done too."

Steve sighed himself; it wasn't an unreasonable request. Sam was a soldier – he wanted to know whether his commander was able to put personal feelings aside to deal with the current threat. "I won't stop hoping for the best-case scenario," Steve told him gravely. "But nor will I hesitate to take action if one of my team or a civilian is in immediate danger."

Sam nodded. "Then I'm with you."

Steve gave a curt nod as Natasha joined them on the bridge. He was pleased to see that some of her previous swagger had returned.

"There may be a chance that we can hit them before we even make it to the Triskelion," she said as she approached. "Whilst they were handcuffing and bundling us into the S.H.I.E.L.D. van, I heard Rumlow give an order to some of his men. He told them to pick up the assets and take them to an address. At the time, I assumed they were talking about us but now I'm not so sure. Here, I looked up the address."

She handed her modified phone to Steve. The screen showed a map of Washington D.C. with a marker pinpointed to the east of Lincoln Park. Sam looked over Steve's shoulder and frowned in recognition. Natasha eyed him with surprise.

"You know it?" she asked.

"Yeah, it's an old, fancy bank. It hasn't been used as a bank for years though," he answered.

"What is it now?" Steve asked.

"Nothing, as far as I'm aware. It's just, kind've, _there_."

Steve's eyebrows rose and he shared a long, knowing glance with Natasha.

* * *

**A/N: **I am well and truly sorry for neglecting this story. I knew that I shouldn't have committed to a writing schedule – as soon as I wrote it down, it all went out the window. I'm afraid RL got a bit crazy for a while but it's calmed down so hopefully regulate updates can recommence. Rest assured that I have not forgotten this story and I have a huge plan mapped out for where this tale takes us.

The invasion of Panama is a real event and coincides with the MCU timeline for Bucky's first mission. I'm taking the liberty of blending the two events together. I'm also taking the liberty of casting Peggy Carter in the real-life role of the Babushka Lady from the JFK assassination in 1963.

I hope you've enjoyed! I will hopefully update again this week to get me back on track with my schedule.


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